ml 

I  o 

3; 

4 1 

5 
4[ 
9! 
1 1 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


.  A*te 


LAYS 


l-KOM    'I  UK 


SUNNY   LANDS 


MRS.   MARY  E.   MORAGNE  DAVIS, 

Author  of  the  "British   I'artisan,"   "AV«<  <»//;•<•, "  ant/  other 
pieces  in  prose  and  verse. 


"  Though  Time  thy  bloom  is  stealing. 

There's  still  beyond  his  art 
The  wild  flower  wreath  of  feeling, — 
The  sunshine  of  the  heart." 

—Hal leek. 


BUFFALO: 
MOULTON,     WENBORNE    AND    COMPANY. 

1888. 


COPYRIGHT,  1888,  BY  MRS.  MARY  E.  MORAGNE  DAVIS. 


P<5 
/5/4 

'3)2.1 


©ebicofton. 

"J^O  the  siovirinx  friends,  whose  warm  appreciation  of  tnv 
earlier  efforts  in  literature  has  been  inv  inspiration  and 
strcngthtntT  in  later  studies:  7'o  the  children  and  grand 
children,  -i'lioiu  they  liare  taught  to  hn\'  and  honor  my  name 
and  character:  To  all  admirers  of  tlie  beautiful,  wherever 
found,  this  little  volume  is  most  lovingly  inscribed  bv 

THE  A  UT11OR, 
TALLEDEGA,  ALA.,  1888. 


550050 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

/ESTHETICS, r 

A  HOME  IN  THE  SOUTH 3 

PICKING  ur  THE  CRUMBS,            .....  6 

THE  MARRIAGE  OK  CUPID  AND  PSYCHE,          ...  8 

THE  MOCKING  BIRD, n 

THE  LEGEND  OK  ST.  ARNULPH,       .         .         .         .  13 

To  CARRIE 15 

BYE  AND  BYE,        .......  16 

THE  LILY  OF  THE  VALE,            .....  19 

LINES  TO  THE  SAVANNAH  RIVER,            ...  20 

IN  MEMORIAM,            22 

AN  EVENING  WALK  IN  AUTUMN,             ...  24 

HOME  MEMORIES, 26 

LAST  WORDS  OK  JAMES  HENLEY  THORNWELL,  D.  D. ,  29 

HE  DOETH  ALL  THINGS  WELL,          .         .         .         .  32 

NOTHING  TO  Do,             ......  34 

THE  LOST  ROSEBUD, 36 

THE  WOODS,           . 38 

THE  LADY  OK  THE  Hn.i., 40 

ELEGY,            42 

Go  FORWARD,             .......  45 

THE  MILLER  AND  THE  CAMKL,       ....  48 

THE  RANCHERO'S  CHILD,             51 

SlNSET  AMONG  THE  MOUNTAINS,             ...  54 

MY  SISTERS, 56 

LINES  KOR  THE  ALBUM  OK  A  YOUNG  FRIEND,         .  58 

THE  HUGUENOT'S  FAREWELL,             ....  60 

AFTER  THE  BATTLE, 63 

THE  WHITE  CROSS  LEAGUE 66 

LES  BELLES  AMITIES, 67 

UNFORGOTTEN  THINGS, 72. 


vi  COA  TENTS. 

PAGE. 

THE  GLORY  AND  THE  GRIEF,  75 

LINKS  TO  A  MAGNOLIA  BUD, 77 

THE  BABY, 79 

THE  BOTANIC  RAMBLE,       ......  Si 

THE  VILLAGE  CHURCH  BELL,          ....  85 

CONSIDER  THE  LILIES, 87 

JACOB  AT  THE  WELL 89 

BESIDE  THE  SYRIAN  WELL 92 

TALLULAH, 94 

ALG^E,        .........  100 

SCENE  ON  THE  HUDSON, 103 

WASHINGTON  IRVING, 105 

OUT  OK  THE  DEPTHS, 107 

LINES  OCCASIONED  BY  A  FROST  IN  APRIL,           .         .  109 

SONG,      .         .        .         .         .         .         .         .         .  i 10 

OUR  BOY  HEROES, 112 

WARFARE, 115 

LITTLE  COTTAGE  HOME, 118 

SHADOWS, 119 

LOVE  AND  THE  FLOWERS, 124 

MY  FOREST  HOME, 126 

POOR  LITTLE  ZIP, 128 

THE  OLD  HOMESTEAD,            133 

THE  PIONEER,     .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .139 

POOR  RACHEL, 144 

OLD  GEOFFREY, 148 

THE  BROKEN  HEART,     ......  153 

THE  IGNIS  FATUUS,  OR  GONDKMA  AND  FABRICIO,        .  157 


LAYS  FROM  THE  SUNNY  LANDS 


LAYS  FROM  THE  SUNNY  LANDS. 


AESTHETICS. 

THE  blizzard  was  past,  old  Eurus  came 
Whetting  his  scimeter  after  the  rain. 

He  pierced  the  mist  on  the  Mountain's  side 
And  flung  it  in  crystals  far  and  wide. 

Each  china-berry  an  ear-drop  wore; 

And  the  mosses  wept  jewels  from  every  spore. 

The  cedars  bore,  on  their  finger  tips 
Goblets,  just  fitted  to  fairy  lips. 

Down  in  the  valley,  the  rifted  trees 

Like  minarets  stood,  in  the  stiffening  breeze. 

The  Mountain,  in  robes  of  silver  grey, 
Looked  like  a  Mussulman,  knelt  to  pray. 

Drinking  the  breath  of  the  icy  morn 
At  the  open  window,  I  stood  forlorn; 

But  the  stillness,  and  awe  of  that  glory,  dim, 
Was  inditing  for  me  a  choral  hymn; 

When  little  Marie,  with  thoughtful  brow 
Ran  in,  to  question  the  why?  and  how? 


.LA  YS  FROM  THE  SUNNY  LANDS. 

"  See  grandmamma,  this  spire  of  grass 
How  beautiful  'tis,  in  its  house  of  glass!" 

"  Yes,  all  His  works  are  bright  and  good, 
My  darling  child,  if  we  understood. 

"  The  mist  imprisoned  the  feathery  tines; 
And  the  chill  air  wove  it,  in  crystal  lines. 

"  'Tis  thus  in  nature,  we  always  find 
Marks  of  a  loving,  grand  design, 

"  But  see,  on  the  window  pane,  how  soon 
The  vapors  their  native  garb  resume. 

"  Sweet  Zephyrus'  wings  are  fluttering  round, 
And  the  pearly  frost-work  is  sliding  down. 

"  The  atoms  are  free  to  move  again; 
Distilling  a  noiseless,  gentle  rain. 

"  There  are  hopes,  dear  child,  which  as  brightly  gleam 
That  dissolve  into  mist,  like  this  fairy  dream; 

"  And  we  learn,  from  the  atmosphere's  fitful  play, 
That  the  most  beautiful  visions  will  pass  away." 


A   HOME    IN   THE   SOUTH. 

THEY  tell  me  of  homes,  in  the  cold,  icy  North, 

Where  beauty  with  splendor  vies, 
Where  genius  and  culture  have  plighted  their  troth 

To  dazzle  and  charm  the  eyes; 
But  1  have  a  cot  by  the  streamlet's  side, 
With  a  verdant  Savanna  opening  wide, 
Where  the  honey-bee  revels  in  beds  of  thyme, 
And  cow-bells  tinkle  a  drowsy  chime, 

And  this  is  the  home  for  me! 
A  home  in  the  South,  the  sweet,  sunny  South, 

A  home  in  the  South  for  me! 

They  whisper  of  vales  in  the  far  distant  West 

Which  the  wonders  of  Nature  show; 
There's  a  snowy  wreath  on  the  mountain  crest 

While  summer  is  ripe  below; 
But  I  have  a  heaven  of  turquoise  blue 
Where  the  liquid  stars  seem  melting  through, 
And  all  night  long  in  the  moon's  pale  sheen 
The  mocking  bird  sings  to  his  fairy  queen;  — 

Oh,  a  home  in  the  South  for  me! 
A  home  in  the  South,  the  beautiful  South, 

A  home  in  the  South  for  me! 

I  envy  not  old  England's  halls, 

Nor  the  pride  of  her  hedges  green, 
'Though  the  nightingale's  song  so  bewitchingly  falls 

The  note  of  the  cuckoo  between. 
There's  a  sweet,  low  trill  at  fall  of  eve 
Quivering  along  through  the  cool,  green  leaves; 

(3) 


LA  YS  FROM  THE  SUNNY  LANDS. 

And  my  red-winged  starling's  harshest  notes 
Are  sweeter  to  me  than  those  foreign  throats;  — 

Oh,  a  home  in  the  South  for  me! 
A  home  in  the  South,  the  sweet-voiced  South, 

A  home  in  the  South  for  me! 

Italia's  skies  are  fair,  I  ween, 

And  the  flush  of  her  purple  grapes; 
Her  marble  halls,  with  sculptures  gleam, 

And  she  has  relics  of  wondrous  shapes; 
But  the  glittering  leaves  of  the  jessamine  vine 
Around  my  cottage  verandas  twine, 
And  dearer  are  they,  than  those  ruins  gray, 
While  under  its  blossoms  my  children  play;  — 

Oh,  a  home  in  the  South  for  me! 
A  home  in  the  South,  my  own  bright  South, 

A  home  in  the  South  for  me! 

Oh,  give  me  a  home  'neath  the  evergreen  bowers 

Where  the  oriole's  palace  swings; 
And  in,  and  out,  'mong  the  orange  flowers 

Gleam  the  tints  of  his  golden  wings; 
Where  fairy  hands  with  the  long  moss  play, 
Through  varnished  green,  and  with  weird  gray, 
And  the  sand-fly  whistles  his  treble  stave, 
And  the  cayman  bellows  beneath  the  wave;  — 

Oh,  a  home  in  the  South  for  me! 
A  home  in  the  South,  the  dreamy  South, 

A  home  in  the  South  for  me! 

Yes,  give  me  a  home,  free  from  anarchy's  rule, 

And  suspicion's  murky  tread; 
From  the  pedant's  scorn,  and  the  bigot's  school. 

And  "  isms"  of  every  head, 
Where  shoulder  to  shoulder,  we  stand  and  fight 


A  HOME  IN  THE  SOUTH'. 

For  honor  and  virtue,  for  truth  and  right; 
Where  each  man's  face  is  an  open  glass, 
Where  thoughts  are  mirrored  to  all  that  pass: 

Oh,  this  is  the  home  for  me!  — 
A  home  in  the  South,  in  the  grand  old  South, 

A  home  in  the  South  for  me! 


PICKING    UP   THE    CRUMBS. 

THE  winter  sky  was  clouded  o'er,  and  dull, 
The  wintry  wind  blew  piercingly  and  cold; 
And  as  I  shook  my  cloth  upon  the  snow 
A  little  bird  came  hopping  to  the  door 
Picking  up  the  crumbs. 

Some  little  children,  seated  on  the  floor 
Were  playing  with  their  spoons,  and  casting  o'er 
Each  other  morsels  of  their  dainty  bread; 
A  little  greedy  dog  with  shaggy  head, 
Was  picking  up  the  crumbs. 

A  farmer  boy,  beside  the  water's  edge 
Eating  his  lunch  upon  the  broomy  sedge 
Let  fall  some  fragments  on  the  limpid  stream; 
The  little  fishes  in  and  out  did  gleam, 
Picking  up  the  crumbs. 

A  little,  willful  child,  with  angry  frown 
Threw  out  his  "  bon  bon  "  on  the  grassy  ground; 
Not  very  long  I  chanced  that  way  to  stray, — 
The  busy  ants  had  moved  it  all  away- 
Picking  up  the  crumbs. 

And  this,  I  said,  is  silent  Nature's  rede 
To  teach  us,  if  we  wisefully  would  heed, 
That  littles  and  by  littles  make  a  heap;  — 
That  many  creatures  do  their  being  keep 
Picking  up  the  crumbs. 

(6) 


PICKING  UP  THE  CRUMBS. 

The  Saviour  would  himself  a  lesson  give 
That  nothing  should  be  lost  on  which  we  live; 
When  the  great  feast  of  miracles  was  stayed, 
Twelve  fragmentary  basketfuls  were  made 
Picking  up  the  crumbs. 

Just  so  with  scraps  of  wisdom,  which  we  find 
In  books,  or  in  tradition,  if  we  mind 
To  catch  them,  as  we  journey  on  in  haste, 
A  loaf  of  knowledge  we'll  obtain  at  last 
Picking  up  the  crumbs. 

Time  ever  dropping, —  as  they  swiftly  turn, — 
His  golden  sands  into  the  gloomy  urn 
Reminds  us,  that  these  precious  gems  are  ours, 
And  we  may  cumulate  the  work  of  years 
Picking  up  the  crumbs. 

All  Nature's  great  developments  are  made 
From  microscopic  atoms.     Forms  and  shades 
And  tints,  and  colorings,  and  voices  train 
The  taste  of  man.     Perfection  he  must  gain 
Picking  up  the  crumbs. 

The  God  who  sees  a  sparrow  when  it  falls, 
And  numbers  e'en  our  hairs,  has  set  o'er  all 
A  providence  minute,  and  he  receives 
The  highest  meed  who  most  attention  gives, 
To  picking  up  the  crumbs. 


THE    MARRIAGE  OF    CUPID  AND 
PSYCHE. 

'Tis  very  clear 
The  ancients  in  their  theories,  came  near 

The  truth  divine,  'though  in  their  practice,  far 
From  doing  justice  to  a  thing  so  dear, — 

Domestic  love,  sweetest,  beyond  compare 
Of  all  things  here —  they  would  not  need  to  sense, 
Nor  make  the  slave  of  self,  nor  dupe  of  folly;    hence 
The  youthful  god  of  Love — as  we  are  told  — 
They  married  to  sweet  Psyche,  or  the  soul! 

Thus  are  we  taught 
That  not  in  silken  chains  of  pleasure  caught, 

Nor  won  by  golden  bribes,  should  Cupid  be; 
But  by  the  sweeter  harmonies  of  thought, 

Tuning  to  one  refrain,  the  minstrelsy 
Of  holy  love,  whose  highest  key-note  is 
In  moral  beauty,  and  in  mental  bliss. 
Only  a  spiritual  communion,  gives 
That  blessed  trust,  which  in  this  tableau  lives. 

Standing  there, 
The  most  illustrious,  and  loveliest  pair 

Of  wedded  hearts,  among  the  forms  divine, 
What  grace  and  beauty  in  their  eyes  appear! 

What  dignity  in  all  their  actions  shine, 
Sweetly  transmitting  down  to  after  years, 
A  model  image  of  that  Love,  which  bears 
Under  the  marriage  yoke,  an  equal  share 
In  all  the  fond  concerns  of  joy  or  care! 

(8) 


MARRIAGE  OF  CUPID  AND  PSYCHE. 

Winged  are  both, 
Which  signifies  to  us,  that  nothing  loath, 

They  fly,  with  speed,  at  Love's  inviting  call  — 
With  such  alacrity,  on  each  side,  doth 

Support  and  cheer  —  anticipating  all 
Wishes  before  expressed;  —  want  cannot  come 
Within  the  precinct  of  their  sheltered  home 
While  rising  each,  on  Love's  unwearied  wing 
They  soar  above  the  cares  that  life  may  bring. 

Veiled  they  show, 
That  Love  its  charm  to  Modesty  doth  owe 

Who  ever  stands,  fair  maiden,  by  their  side 
Speaking  soft  words  and  pure; 

And  putting  down  the  arrogance  of  pride, 
Which  makes  its  claim,  superior,  to  be  seen 
With  coarser  jest  and  ribaldry,  this  I  ween 
Would  drive  the  tender  passion  from  the  breast 
And  entertain  instead,  a  bare-faced  guest. 

Hymen  goes  before 
Bearing  a  lighted  torch,  whose  glow 

Shall  guide  them  all  the  way, 
And  warm  them  more  and  more 

With  pure  devotion  'till  their  heads  be  gray. 
He  leads  them  by  a  chain, 
Entwined  about  them,  o'er  and  o'er  again; 
Binding  them  fast,  in  one  continuous  bond, 
A  Gordian  knot,  but  equable  and  fond. 

This  chain  is  not 
From  brass,  nor  yet  from  iron  heavy  wrought, 

For  marriage  should  not  be  a  thraldom  high, 
Nor  like  the  slave,  into  the  shambles  brought 

In  durance  vile,  should  either  sigh; 


io  LAYS  FROM  77/£  SUNNY  LANDS. 

And  neither  is  it  made  of  links  of  gold, 
Within  whose  meshes  hearts  are  bought  and  sold; 
But  'tis  of  pearls,  most  exquisitely  fair, 
Unstained  with  selfishness,  and  light  to  wear. 

Sweet  Psyche  and  her  love, 
Caressingly,  between  them,  held  a  dove, 
To  signify,  that  like  that  faithful  bird 
Each  from  the  other,  never  more  shall  rove; 

But  ever  true,  in  thought,  in  deed,  in  word, 
'  E'en  in  the  topmost  boughs  of  duty  sing; 
Filling  all  life  with  cooings  of  the  spring; 
Keeping  the  ear  still  open  to  that  call, 
Which  first,  its  raptured  senses  did  enthrall. 

Lastly,  with  feathers  curled, 
And  wings  all  shrivelled,  and  closely  furled, 

A  gentle  genius,  seems  to  intimate 
That  through  the  varied  world 

Neither  must  wish  to  find  another  mate; 
But  as  his  wings  are  now  unfit  for  flight 
So  must  they  linger  near  him  with  delight; 
And  as  with  Love  began  their  blest  career, 
So,  still  with  Love  must  end  this  union  dear. 


THE    MOCKING   BIRD. 

BIRD  of  the  South!     Imperial  prince  of  song, 
That  through  the  lone  hours  lovest  to  prolong 
The  tidal  wave  of  music  dear  to  me! 
A  debt  of  gratitude  I  owe  to  thee, 
Who  soothed  with  melody  the  throbs  of  pain, 
Through  the  night  watches,  till  the  morning  came. 
Perched  on  the  leafy  hedges,  far  away, 
Pouring  thy  soul  out  to  the  moon's  pale  ray, 
Or,  'neath  my  window,  in  the  garden  bowers, 
Where  sits  thy  duteous  mate,  enshrined  in  flowers, 
The  fond  Epithalamium  thou  dost  sing, 
Both  night  and  day,  will  tears  and  laughter  bring. 

Bird  of  the  South!  they  do  thee  willful  wrong, 
Who  say  thou  art  a  plagiarist  in  song; 
And  I,  thy  grateful  service  will  repay 
By  proving  thee  an  artist  in  thy  way, 
In  the  alembic  of  thy  little  throat 
Distilling  sweetest  strains  from  every  note 
Which  Nature  to  the  choral  tribes  hath  given, 
Thus  echoing,  in  full,  the  voice  of  heaven! 
Thou  doest  what  all  amateurs  have  done, 
Trilling  the  chords  of  harmony  begun, 
In  shakes,  arpeggios,  and  "winding  bout" 
Of  labyrinthine  sweetness  "long  drawn  out." 

Bird  of  the  South!  so  mocked  art  thou,  then, 
Though  from  the  lark,  the  red-bird,  and  the  wren 
Thou  drawest  the  themes  thou  dost  so  sweetly  sing. 
Of  all  composers,  thou  the  very  king! 
Calling  each  beauty  from  the  feathered  throng 
To  weave  into  thy  microcosm  of  song ; 


12  LA  YS  FROM  THE  SUNNY  LANDS. 

Stringing  with  endless  wit,  the  chain  of  sound, 
Where  pearls  and  golden  links  of  tone  abound, 
Where  "  L' Allegro"  "II  Penseroso"  meet. 
Richly  diverse,  yet  joined  in  cadence  sweet. 
No  hypercriticism  can  it  be, 
Sweet  caroler,  that  thus  entranceth  thee! 

Bird  of  the  South!     Bird  of  the  sunny  lands! 
Around  thee,  every  social  thought  expands, 
Of  home,  and  flowers,  and  breezy  woodlands,  too; 
Thou  makest  e'en  sorrow  brighter  to  the  view ! 
Partner  in  all  my  joys,  solace  in  misery, 
A  loving  compact  I  have  formed  with  thee. 
But  more,  sweet  friend,  I  love  thee  as  the  type 
Of  Southern  beauty,  which  no  wrongs  can  wipe 
From  my  heart  or  thine.     Oppression  cannot  bring 
Blight  on  its  hues,  nor  any  discord  fling 
In  thy  patrician  lay.      For  me  and  thee, 

Bird  of  the  Sunny  South,  there  can  no  exile  be. 


THE    LEGEND  OF    ST.   ARNULPH. 

How  surely  God  has  written  on  the  heart 
His  philanthropic  lessons,  all  apart 
From  Superstition's  rule,  or  bigot's  art  ! 

The  prepossession  through  the  nations  ran 
Inscribed  on  legends  culled  from  every  land 
Connecting  love  to  God  with  love  to  man. 

St.  Arnulph,  a  physician's  son,  was  reared, 

And  him  his  sire  had  with  care  prepared 

To  share  the  "  Healer's"  high  and  great  award. 

St.  Arnulph  to  his  father  said,  one  day: 
'  Let  me  into  the  cloister  go,  I  pray  ; 
To  serve  our  God  is  far  the  better  way." 

'  'Tis  true,  my  son,"  the  father  said,  "  but  then, 
As  a  physician  you  may  serve  Him,  when 
You  also  try  to  serve  your  fellow-men. 

"  But  go  into  thy  closet  now  and  pray, 
Thy  anxious  quest  before  thy  Maker  lay;  — 
To-morrow  I  will  do  as  thou  shalt  say." 

The  pious  Arnulph  to  his  closet  went, 

And  asked  of  God,  as  near  the  throne  he  bent ;  - 

His  days  might  all  be  in  His  service  spent. 

And  lo!  an  angel  stood  within  the  room 

His  right  hand  filled  with  roses,  in  their  bloom 

Shedding  on  all  around  a  rich  perfume. 

(13) 


14  LA  YS  FROM  THE  SUNNY  LANDS. 

The  angelic  messenger  looked  up  and  smiled. 
"  Behold,"  said  he,  "  the  offerings,  my  child, 
Of  those,  no  longer  by  their  sins  beguiled  !" 

"But  in  thy  left  hand  also,"  Arnulph  said, 
"  I  see  another  wreath  of  roses  red; 
And  wherefore  is  their  grateful  odor  fled  ?" 

"  These  are  thy  offerings  Arnulph;   these  alone 
The  gifts  thou  broughtest  to  God,  their  sweetness 

flown, 
Because  thy  heart  is  very  selfish  grown. 

"  For  know,  the  fragrant  gifts  of  my  right  hand 
Embalmed  in  love  have  been;  so  understand 
He  serves  God  best  who  serves  his  fellow-man  !  " 


TO  CARRIE. 

( In  an  Album?) 

MY  gentle  friend,  upon  thy  brow 
No  shadows  from  the  future  play; 

But  living  on  the  joyous  now 

Thy  spirit  must  be, —  will  be  gay. 

And  could  the  sunny  days  of  youth 
Live  on  in  one  eternal  spring, 

Could  earth  become  the  home  of  truth 
I'd  love  to  see  thee  laugh  and  sing. 

But  even  o'er  those  vernal  hours 
Life's  murky  shadows  often  fall, 

And  tho'  we  grasp  some  fleeting  flowers, 
The  serpent's  trail  is  over  all. 

They  who  that  mission  would  fulfill 
Which  to  the  loving  heart  is  given, 

Must  weep  with  those  that  weep,  and  still 
Look  up  in  patient  trust  to  heaven. 

They  who  that  holy  path  would  find 
Where  fraud  and  malice  have  not  been, 

Must  seek  it  where  life's  sorrows  end, 
And  where  the  joys  of  heaven  begin. 

Then  hope  not  for  perennial  smiles 
To  brighten  up  this  earth  with  love; 

The  amaranth  flower  can  only  bloom 
In  the  sweet  paradise  above. 

(15) 


BYE   AND    BYE. 

"  Man  never  is  but  always  to  be  blest." 

SOMEWHERE  adown  the  stream  of  time, 
Floating  along  in  haste  sublime. 
Lies  a  land,  never  seen  by  mortal  eye; 
Tis  a  sweet  little  island  called  "  Bye  and  Bye." 

It  may  be  about  us ;  or  it  may  be  afar, 

Cradled  beneath  the  evening  star; 

Or  Eternity's  sands  may  be  drifting  high 

On  that  mystical  land  of  the  sweet  "  Bye  and  Bye. 

But  brilliant  fancies  around  it  play; 
And  happiness  there  never  cloys,  they  say; 
And  riches  that  Croesus  could  not  buy 
Fill  the  dear  little  island,  "  Bye  and  Bye." 

Oh,  this  beautiful  island!  weary  and  worn 
We  wander,  darkling  through  paths  unknown; 
But  hope  ever  points  to  a  beacon  high 
Where  we  catch  the  sunshine  of  "  Bye  and  Bye." 

The  laborer,  as  he  sows  the  ground, 

Watching  and  toiling  the  whole  year  round, 

Sees  rest  and  comfort  drawing  nigh, 

With  his  garnered  sheaves,  in  the  "  Bye  and  Bye. 

The  merchant,  too,  as  day  by  day 
Small  gains  his  weary  vigils  pay, 
Dreams  nightly  of  his  Argosie 
Laden  with  wealth  in  the  "  Bye  and  Bye." 
(16) 


RYE  AND  BYE.  17 

The  soldier,  through  his  griefs  untold, 
Tired  and  hungry,  wet  and  cold, 
Hears  "  Glory,"  with  her  trumpet  high, 
Sound  "  Paeans"  in  the  "  Bye  and  Bye." 

See  that  fond  mother  bending  there, 
Smiling,  but  faint  with  cradle-care, 
She  whispers  soft,  as  her  fingers  fly, 
'  These  babes  shall  comfort  me  '  Bye  arid  Bye.'" 

The  boy  grows  up,  erect  and  tall, 

And,  looking  away  from  top  and  ball, 

Sees  manhood's  brightest  honors  lie 

In  the  glorious  land  of  the  "  Bye  and  Bye." 

To  the  maiden  fair  all  nature  seems 

A  'wilderment  of  golden  dreams  ; 

But  their  sweetest  development  waits,  to  try 

This  fairy  island,  "  Bye  and  Bye." 

The  Christian  wades  through  troubled  seas, 
He  asks  not  for  pleasure,  he  seeks  not  ease; 
But  he  points  to  a  vision  beyond  the  sky  — 
His  mansion  of  rest  in  the  "  Bye  and  Bye." 

Oh,  this  beautiful  island!  it  leads  us  on 
Under  the  banner  the  Saviour  won, 
To  strive  for  the  crown  which  faith  can  descry 
Awaiting  the  just,  in  the  "  Bye  and  Bye." 

Oh,  this  beautiful  island!     The  tempter  lures 
The  minds  of  his  subjects  this  spot  to  choose 
For  the  place  of  repentance,  and  so  belie 
The  promises  sweet  of  the  "  Bye  and  Bye" 


1 8  LA  YS  FROM  THE  SUNNY  LANDS, 

Oh,  the  promises  sweet  of  that  blissful  shore! 
Where  hearts  once  united  shall  part  no  more; 
Where  all  at  the  Saviour's  feet  shall  lie, 
In  the  beautiful  halls  of  the  "Bye  and  Bye." 


THE    LILY    OF    THE    VALE. 

WHEN,  bending  to  the  passing  gale 
Thy  slender  stem,  and  cheek  so  pale, 
Thy  soft  breath  scents  the  dewy  vale, 

Sweet  lily!  —  then, 
When  stooping  o'er  the  water's  side, 
Though  brightly  imaged  in  its  tide, 
Thy  modest  chalice  knows  no  pride 

Nor  jealous  pain. 

On  thee  should  rambling  school  boy  light, 

Attracted  by  thy  petals  bright, 

A  broken  stem  would  mark  his  flight 

In  thoughtless  haste. 
But,  envious  is  thy  fate,  sweet  flower, 
Secluded  in  thy  sylvan  bower, 
Apart  from  sad  temptation's  power, 

And  ruthless  waste. 

Thou  art  the  soul  of  thoughts  refined, 
The  image  of  a  spotless  mind, 
Where  delicacy  sits  enshrined, 

Thou  peerless  one! 
And  gentle  maidens,  pure  and  true, 
May  learn  from  thee,  that  not  to  woo 
Will  make  them  sweeter  to  the  view, 

And  scorned  by  none. 

(19) 


LINES    TO   THE    SAVANNAH    RIVER. 

GENTLE  river,  gentle  river, 

Softly  as  thy  surges  roll, 
Flow  the  thoughts  which  thou  awakest 

On  my  idealistic  soul;  — 
Rolling  on  from  childhood's  haven 

Thou  hast  treasured  dreams  of  mine, 
Till  the  slightest  breath  that  stirs  thee, 
Wakes  a  murmuring  of  "  Lang  Syne." 

River,  I  have  marked  thy  current 

Gliding  from  its  mountain  springs, 
Leaping  in  its  foaming  eddies, 

Flashing  on  its  silver  wings; 
Yet  to  me,  thy  stream  is  fairest 

Where  thou  spreadest  still  and  wide, 
Blending  such  resistless  beauty, 

With  the  grandeur  of  thy  tide. 

River,  gentle  river,  tell  me, 

Is  there  aught  of  mystic  spell, 
Mermaid's  haunt,  or  Nereid's  grotto, 

Garnered  in  thy  crystal  well  ? 
Oft  when  lying,  idly  musing, 

In  some  still,  sequestered  nook 
Was  it  sprite,  or  wandering  zephyr 

Flowery  petals  on  me  shook? 

Haply,  spirits  long  departed 

Roam  along  this  fragrant  shore, 

Lingering  in  the  spell,  which  binds  them 
To  the  haunts  they  loved  of  yore; 

(20) 


LINES  TO   THE  SAVANNAH  RIVER. 

Oft,  when  sporting  on  thy  bosom 

In  a  shallop,  lightly  bound, 
I  have  fancied,  Elfin  music 

Trembled  in  the  waters  round. 

Haply,  here,  the  Indian  maiden 

Wafted  in  her  light  canoe 
To  the  dipping  oar  makes  rhythm 

With  the  songs  of  "  long  ago"; 
Haply,  here,  the  quivered  chieftain, 

Floating  down  thy  glassy  tide, 
Sings  the  war-songs  of  his  nation 

To  entrance  his  dusky  bride. 

River,  many  a  barque  has  tried  thee, 

Many  a  foot  has  pressed  thy  shore; 
But  a  race  has  vanished  from  thee 

Thou  shalt  never  gladden  more. 
River, —  thou  enduring  river! 

Many  ages  yet  to  come; 
Though  another  race  has  perished 

Thou  wilt  brightly  sparkle  on! 


IX    MEMORIAM. 

MISS  M.  C.  CALHOUN,  OF  SOUTH  CAROLINA, 
AUTHOR  OF  "KEOWEE  WALTRES." 

\\"K  know  that  the  spirit,  on  earth  leaves  a  trace 

Of  the  feelings,  which  prove  it  divine; 
As  roses,  tho'  withered,  still  hallow  the  vase 

Where  they,  in  their  freshness,  reclined;  — 
As  the  breathings  of  music  remain  in  the  shell, 

When  the  soul  of  the  minstrel  is  fled; 
And  float  on  the  breeze,  in  harmonious  swell 

When  we  waken  the  chords  of  the  dead. 

We  know,  that  the  heart,  in  its  hungering,  craves 

Some  token,  its  thoughts  to  recall;  — 
For  thee  seemed  enough  the  proud  banner  that  waves 

In  the  light  of  thy  ancestral  hall; 
But  the  spirit  of  poesy  breathed  on  thy  soul; 

And  Keowee's  legends  around, 
Awoke  all  the  echoes  of  harmonies,  old, 

And  attuned  them  to  metrical  sound. 

We  know  not,  if  beauty  thy  person  adorned; 

But  we  know,  there  was  beauty  of  soul 
On  "  Etowa's"  soft  liquid  measure  'tis  borne; 

On  "  Toxawa's  "  wild  waves  it  rolls. 
Oh,  some  on  ambition's  fierce  tempest  are  tost; 

And  some  are  by  vanity  moved;  — 
For  thee  it  is  sweet, —  who  so  early  was  lost, — 

Thus  to  sing,  in  the  hearts  thou  has  loved  ? 

(22) 


IN  MEMORIAM.  23 

We  trust  thou  art  gone  to  some  island  of  rest, 

Where  music  and  rapture  are  one, 
Where  the  soul  never  feels  that  enchanting  distress 

Which  thrills  in  thy  sorrow-fraught  tones. 
They  wail  for  thee!  —  wail  for  thee!  swan  of  the  South; 

And  we,  the  sweet  death  notes  prolong; 
Oh!  who  would  not  lay  down  the  chaplet  in  youth, 

To  be  thus  embalmed  in  song! 


AN    EVENING    WALK    IN    AUTUMN. 


OH,  how  sweet  and  how  cheering 

In  solitude  to  roam, 
When  the  pale  tints  of  evening 

Diffuse  a  soft  gloom. 

When  the  song  birds  have  fled 

To  their  nightly  repose; 
And  the  broad  disk  of  Sol  is  o'erspread 

With  opal  and  rose! 

Oh,  'tis  bliss  to  elope 

From  the  cares  of  the  day; 
At  this  hour,  and  in  widest  scope 

Nature  around  survey. 

The  plain,  plodding  rustic,  list  ! 

Whistling  as  homeward  he  hies; 
His  plump  cheek,  how  nut-brown  it  is! 

What  joy  in  his  quick,  flashing  eyes! 

Adown  the  valley  you  gaze 

Where  the  steps  of  the  Frost  King  are  seen, 
The  woodside  is  one  attaching  maze, 

Purple,  and  gold,  and  green. 

'Mid  rustling  leaves,  —  hist!  the  squirrel  steals 

Belated  to  his  store; 
And  the  whirring  wing  of  the  partridge,  wheels 

To  seek  her  mate  once  more. 

(24) 


AN  EVENING  WALK  IN  AUTUMN.  25 

Through  the  russet  wood,  remote  from  sight 

As  far  as  the  eye  extends; 
Where  Dame  Nature  exhibits  her  naked  plight, 

A  solemn  calm  impends. 

Lo!  on  the  crest  of  the  high-peaked  pine 

A  sudden  glory  shines! 
There  the  last  beams  of  Sol  recline 

In  shimmering  broken  lines. 

High  in  the  west  one  radiant  pearl 

Emerges  to  the  sight;  — 
Venus,  thou  goddess  of  yore!  unfurl 

Thy  charms  to  the  soft  twilight! 

And  mark  in  the  east,  that  rising  sphere, 

Peerless  in  majesty! 
How  grand  her  strides!  her  beams  how  clear, 

As  she  walks  o'er  the  turquoise  sea! 

Oh,  hast  roamed  at  even,  when  moonbeams  shone 
And  the  glittering  stars  were  at  play,  — 

To  heaven,  thy  sorrows  hast  thou  bemoaned 
Till  thy  cares  have  died  away? 

'Tis  ecstasy!  —  this  sense  divine 

Of  the  gloriotts  things  that  he, 
It  ennobles  thought,  it  lifts  the  mind 

To  musings  heavenly! 

Found  among  the  papers  of  my  brother.— W.  C.  M. 


HOME    MEMORIES. 


THEY  played  together,  'neath  the  shades 

Which  girt  their  forest  home; 
They  sported  in  the  sunny  glades 

Or  on  the  hillsides  roamed;  — 
So  full  of  life  and  childish  glee, 
So  fond,  in  their  young  purity 
You  would  have  deemed, 'the  world  could  ne'er 
Have  separated  things  so  dear. 

They  grew  together, —  side  by  side, — 

Till  childhood's  glee  was  gone; 
And  youth  had  won  its  brow  of  pride, 

Its  eye  and  lip  of  song; 
The  same  in  love,  in  heart,  and  life, 
As  free  from  stain,  as  far  from  strife, 
It  was  a  pleasant  sight  to  see 
These  children  of  one  family! 

How  little  recked  they  of  the  pain 
Which  coming  years  might  bring! 

From  care  and  sorrow's  gloomy  train 
That  home  had  bounded  in, — 

Alas!  for  tears  that  all  must  shed, 

Both  for  the  living  and  the  dead! 

There's  many  a  footstep  silent  now, 

Which  gladdened  that  sweet  home  of  yore. 

She  faded  with  the  autumn  leaf, 
A  sweet  and  modest  girl; 
(26) 


HOME  MEMORIES.  27 

Her  life  had  been  as  fair  as  brief, 

Too  gentle  for  this  world; 
Like  some  sweet  flower,  o'er  which  has  passed 
The  rushing  of  the  deadly  blast, 
Scattered  in  freshness  on  the  ground, 
She  sank  in  beauty  to  the  tomb! 

One  perished  in  a  foreign  land;  — 

A  brave  and  noble  boy: 
The  brightest  of  that  happy  band, 

The  merriest  in  his  joy. 
The  duty  to  his  country  owed 
He  placed  above  all  cherished  good; 
And  poured  his  life's  blood  on  the  soil 
He  won  with  so  much  pain  and  toil. 

And  one,  the  pride  and  hope  of  all, 

Upon  the  world  is  cast; 
Bound  to  Ambition's  stormy  barque, 

Yet  weary  of  the  past. 
The  traveler  of  many  lands 
The  soldier,  scholar,  patriot  stands; 
But  often  does  he  crave  the  shade 
Where  in  his  infancy  he  played. 

Another,  lured  by  love  away, 
J  Hath  made  herself  a  nest; 
And  where  her  little  fledgelings  play 

There  she  delights  to  rest. 
Ambition's  wings  are  folded  down; 
And  vain  desires  and  hopes  are  gone; 
Yet  many  a  yearning  thought  she  sends 
To  the  old  home  and  childhood  friends! 

Another  yet, —  most  firm  of  soul, 
Hath  gained  himself  a  place. 


28  LA  r.Y  FROM  THE  SUNNY  LAATDS. 

By  energy  and  stern  control. 

A  blessing  to  his  race; 
Yet  not  alone;  a  gentle  friend 
Doth  to  his  cottage  beauty  lend; 
And  infant  greetings  well  atone 
For  voices  of  his  native  home. 

Such  is  the  various  fate  of  some 

Who  at  one  board  were  fed; 
Three  to  their  several  tasks  are  gone; 

And  two  are  with  the  dead! 
Around  the  parent  tree  still  cling 
Some  branches  of  the  later  spring; 
But  changed,  as  by  a  wizard's  spell, 
Is  the  dear  home  we  loved  so  well. 

Still  proudly  wave  those  fine  old  trees; 

But  seldom  there  is  heard 
Glad  music  rushing  on  the  breeze, 

By  joy's  wild  fingers  stirred;  — 
Upon  each  fair  and  youthful  face 
Lingers  a  sad  and  silent  grace, 
As  if  some  cloud  of  days  gone  by 
Were  shadowing  o'er  their  summer  sky. 


THE    LAST   WORDS    OF    JAMES    HENLEY 
THORNWELL,   D.    D. 


THE  seer  lay  meekly  on  his  dying  bed; 

Unconscious  of  its  woes.     No  plaint  was  there;  but, 

gentle  smiles  instead 

Played  round  his  lips,  and  thrilled  with  holy  fear 
The  looker's  on, —  because  of  angels  near. 

The  conflict  had  been  sharp.      His  raven  hair 
Bedewed  with  death's  cold  drops  lay  darkly  there; 
And  in  his  eye  was  quenched  the  fire,  sublime, 
So  lately  in  its  intellectual  prime. 

The  partner  of  his  soul!    Oh,  who  can  tell 
The  sorrow  which  to  her  that  hour  befell! 
And  children  dear  who  grew  beneath  his  wing, 
But  now  bereft  of  that  safe  sheltering! 

And  othjers,  too,  within  that  room  of  woe 
Were  weeping  as  they  seldom  wept  before; 
Because  a  sun  was  going  down  at  noon;  — 
Because  that  tongue  was  paralyzed  so  soon! 

Well  might  we  here  anticipate  the  wail 
Of  grief  which  borne  on  many  a  Southern  gale 
Filled  every  heart  and  echoed  from  each  shore: 
'  The  people's  own  —  our  Thornwell  is  no  more!" 

His  Country's  boast,  the  Church's  hope  and  pride; 
The  book  in  which  all  Querists  could  confide; 

(29) 


30  LA  YS  FROM  THE  SUNNY  LANDS. 

The  Orator,  Logician,  Patriot,  Sage; 

The  man  of  men, —  the  greatest  of  his  age! 

But  worth  and  fame  redeem  not!    Here  he  lies 
With  pallid  brow  and  closely  veiled  eyes. 
Behind  he  leaves  a  track  of  light  divine; 
But  now  he  dies,  and  dying,  leaves  no  sign. 

What  need  of  further  proof?     His  life  had  been 
An  open  conflict  with  the  man  of  sin, 
And  all  the  trophies  of  his  brilliant  mind 
Had  humbly  to  his  Saviour  been  resigned. 

What  need  ?  what  need  ?  when  daily  o'er  and  o'er 
He  witness  to  the  Christian's  graces  bore; 
And  from  the  dewy  morning  of  his  youth 
Had  laid  his  off 'rings  on  the  shrine  of  "  Truth  "  ! 

No  sounds  now  reach  him  from  a  world  of  grief, 
But  lo!  he  speaks  in  accents  clear  and  brief; 
While  light  from  other  worlds  like  sunset  waves 
With  flick'ring  shadows  every  feature  laves. 

At  this  last  stage  the  great  Physician  came; 
And  touched  his  weary  eyes  with  healing  balm. 
Christ  would  not  leave  his  servant  to  go  down 
The  dreary  vale  without  some  light  around. 

The  curtain  of  the  future  was  withdrawn, 
And  on  his  parting  spirit  gleamed  the  dawn, 
The  beautiful  invisible!   the  blest 
Fair  mansions,  where  the  weary  rest. 

"Wonderful!"  "Beautiful!"  they  hear  him  say. 
Surprise  and  rapture  mingling  in  their  play  — 


LAST  WORDS  OF  THORN  WELL.  31 

'  Nothing  but  space;" — breaks  on  his  joyous  sense, 
Again  he  softly  cries,  "  Expanse!  Expanse!  Expanse  !" 

If  thus  the  glorious  shadowings  alone, 
Across  the  cold  dark  stream  of  Jordan  shone, 
What  must  the  beatific  vision  be, 
When  on  him  burst  the  bright  reality! 

When  through  the  happy  realms  of  ambient  space 
His  shackles  dropt,  he  took  his  flight  in  haste, 
And  passed  the  bounds  of  many  a  rolling  star, 
Which  scientists  had  looked  on  from  afar! 

When  on  the  sapphire  floor  of  heaven  he  trod, 
And  worshipped  in  the  glorious  court  of  God, 
And  saw  the  Lamb  upon  his  jeweled  throne, 
And  saw  the  Elders  cast  their  glittering  crowns. 

Oh  blessed  man!  —  and  blessed,  blessed  fate, 
To  find  an  open  entrance  at  the  gate 
Where  many  knock,  and  knock,  alas!    in  vain, 
Departing  thence,  to  dwell  in  endless  pain. 


HE    DOETH    ALL    THINGS    WELL. 

'ALL  things  "  ?     Dear  Lord,  sin  boldly  stalks  around, 
Injustice  reigns,  oppressive  acts  abound, 
Deceit  and  violence  usurp  the  earth 
And  mock  at  innocence  and  modest  worth. 
'  Man  sees  in  part.     The  evil  I  allow 
Will  only  make  my  saints  the  fairer  grow." 

'All  things"  ?     And  yet  the  proud  oppress  the  poor, 
The  good  are  beggars  at  the  rich  man's  door, 
Power  and  wealth  are  given  alike  to  few, 
The  righteous  seldom  have  the  means  to  do. 

'  Power  and  wealth  are  dangerous  foes  to  grace; 
I  use  them  only  in  their  proper  place." 

'All  things  "  ?  Our  fairest  flowers  are  hedged  with  thorns, 

Mildew  and  blight  spring  ever  in  our  corn; 

O'er  all  our  brightest  hopes  a  shadow  falls, 

And  every  pleasure  on  the  spirit  palls. 
'  If  on  a  bed  of  roses  thou  didst  lie 

No  words  of  mine  could  win  thee  to  the  sky." 

'All  things"!   Thou  mighty  one!    Floods  waste  and  kill, 

The  stormy  winds  fulfill  thy  direful  will; 

Earthquake  and  pestilence,  and  fire  and  sword 

Harass  us  in  our  beautiful  abode. 
'  Rebellious  children  must  be  taught  to  fear 

A  God  of  glory  and  of  vengeance  near." 

'All  things"?     My  dearest  Lord  behold  me  now, 
What  bitter  writhings  on  my  anguished  brow! 

(3*) 


HE  DOETH  ALL   THINGS  WELL.  33 

The  beauty  of  my  life,  my  joy,  my  rest, 
Thou  takest  away,  and  leavest  me  unblest. 
'  In  no  way  could  I  wean  thee  from  the  world, 
Unless  thy  idols  from  their  throne  I  hurled." 

"All  things!-  all  things"!    My  Father  I  am  pressed 
With  anxious  cares,  by  sharpest  want  distressed; 
Through  the  deep  gloom  I  see  no  pitying  hand 
Stretched  over  the  dark  gulf  on  which  I  stand. 

'  'Tis  well,  my  child;  thou  wouldst  not  lean  on  me 
Till  all  thy  props  had  failed  thee  utterly." 

"All  things"?    Under  thy  chastening  hand  I  long  have 
been 

A  weary  sufferer,  and  thou  hast  seen 

My  spirit  struggling  with  despair  and  grief 

Because  my  term  of  service  is  so  brief. 
'  Be  still;    it  is  thy  Father's  hand  of  love 

Removing  thee  from  all  these  ills  above." 

'  He  doeth  all  things  well"!    In  wrath  or  love 
The  greatest  good  to  all,  his  actings  prove. 
Nature  and  providence  concurrent  show 
That  truth  and  wisdom  which  no  failure  know. 
Earth  speaks  in  mysteries,  but  heaven  shall  tell 
Through  all  her  sounding  aisles,  "  He  doeth  all  things 
well." 


NOTHING    TO    DO. 

NOTHING  to  do!  And  the  world  is  full 

Of  want,  and  care,  and  crime; 
That  law  will  you  dare  disannul 

Which  maketh  work  divine  ? 

Your  heart  is  a  garden,  well  I  know, 

O'errun  with  noisome  weeds; 
Plough  up  the  fallow  ground  and  sow 

The  soil  with  choicest  seeds. 

But  let  your  work  for  otJier 's  weal. 

Not  for  your  own,  abound; 
The  truest  guerdon  of  human  zeal 

In  self  is  never  found. 

Have  you  a  mother  bending  down 
'Neath  the  sheaves  of  toil  and  grief? 

Your  young  arm  round  her  strongly  wound 
Will  sweetly  bring  relief. 

You  have  a  father,  perchance,  whose  life 

Has  been  one  thought  for  you; 
Oh!  have  you  nothing, —  to  soothe  the  strife 

Of  age  and  care, —  to  do  ? 

Your  brothers, —  Oh,  how  much  they  need 

Your  hand  to  lead  above! 
No  words  against  temptations  plead 

So  strong  as  a  sister's  love! 

(34) 


NOTHING  TO  DO.  35 

And  if  you  have  no  flock  to  tend 

Go  work  in  the  common  fold; 
One  wandering  lamb,  if  you  gather  in, 

Then  you  have  saved  a  soul  ! 

The  world  is  a  field  of  duty,  made 

To  work  in  if  you  would; 
'The  poor  ye  always  have,"  He  said; 
And  ye  may  do  them  good. 

But  if  you  can  find  no  work,  then  pray 
The  Lord  of  the  "  Harvest  Home" 

To  bear  you  from  fruitless  days  away 
Lest  you  become  a  drone. 


THE    LOST    ROSEBUD. 


\Vn  HIN  our  rural  garden 

While  summer  smiled  serene, 
There  grew  six  gentle  rosebuds, 

Upon  one  parent  stem. 
By  dews  and  showers  nurtured 

And  guarded  with  much  care 
They  opened  in  the  sunbeams, 

And  promised  passing  fair. 

But  though  to  outward  seeming 

This  cluster  bloomed  so  fair 
A  worm,  within  its  bosom, 

Was  darkly  preying  there. 
Yet,  was  its  work  unheeded 

By  the  fond  ones  at  her  side, 
Till  the  sweetest  of  the  rosebuds 

Had  drooped  its  head  and  died. 

Then  rose  a  wail  of  anguish 

From  out  that  sister  band 
For  the  lost  and  lovely  rosebud 

Which  by  their  side  did  stand; 
Nor  ceased  their  vain  lamentings, 

Though  faith  could  point  above 
To  a  seraph-spirit  blooming 

In  imperishable  love. 

How  did  our  mother  languish 

For  that  pure  and  guileless  breast 

(36) 


THE  LOST  ROSEBUD.  37 

Which  in  the  lonely  churchyard 

We  gently  laid  to  rest; 
She  missed  the  kindly  footsteps 

That  came  at  her  command, 
She  pined,  amid  her  household, 

To  see  a  broken  band. 

But  now,  to  soothe  that  anguish, 

Sweet  sister,  thou  art  come 
In  lieu  of  that  fair  rosebud 

Which  God  has  taken  home. 
Thou  hast  come  with  gentle  goodness, 

Thou  hast  come  with  graces  sweet, 
And  though  there's  one  in  heaven 

Our  cluster's  still  complete! 


THE  WOODS. 

"  The  country  — the  country  wins  me  still." 

THE  woods!  The  bright,  the  joyous  woods! 

Where  birds  and  bees  make  concert  good, 

With  croaking  frogs,  and  insect  wings 

And  many  other  gleesome  things! 

The  babbling  brooklet's  noisy  swell, 

The  violets,  in  the  mossy  dell, 

The  glen-side,  with  its  wreaths  of  fern, 

And  nuts  and  berries  in  their  turn 

Bring  back  my  childhood  joys  to  me: 

And  then  three  merry  boys  I  see, 

Whose  memory,  —  alas!  is  all 

A  sister's  love  may  now  recall, 

Who  shared  with  me  the  round-de-lay, 

Dame  Nature  sung  for  us,  each  day. 

The  beautiful,  the  breezy  wood! 
Where  in  my  early  maidenhood 
A  happy,  thoughtful  girl  I  strayed 
Through  many  a  leafy  copse  and  glade: 
Or  musing,  on  the  greensward  lay, 
The  greensward,  rich  with  flow'rets  gay: 
And  by  my  side  was  one,  as  fair 
As  wood-nymphs,  or  as  Nereids  are. 
We  sweet  communion  held  of  soul, 
And  conversed  with  the  bards  of  old, 
Under  the  spreading  beech-tree's  shade, 
Or  bowers,  by  thick  "  Bignonias  "  made, 
With  feathery  arches  overhead, 

(38) 


THE   WOODS.  39 

With  crimson  bells  the  floor  o'erspread. 

Ofttimes  upon  the  river's  brink 

We  stooped  to  see  the  snowdrops  drink. 

Ah  me!  how  many  years  I've  seen, 

Since  she  through  Beulah's  land  has  been! 

The  woods!  the  grand  old  glorious  woods, 
Lifting  their  heads  beyond  the  floods, 
And  whispering  back  the  tales  of  eld 
From  sighing  boughs  —  the  tales  that  held 
Our  sires  in  such  a  wondrous  awe 
Of  Nature's  great  unchanging  law. 
A  mystery,  sublime  and  wild; 
I  felt  it  when  I  was  a  child, 
It  thrilled  me,  when  a  woman  grown; 
I  heard  the  wind's  low,  plaintive  moan, 
O'er  peace  destroyed,  1  feel  it  now, — 
When  time  is  silvering  o'er  my  brow. 

The  strong,  the  free,  the  dauntless  wood, 
Which  fire  and  flood  and  storm  withstood 
Through  seons  past,  and  still  as  blest 
Come  forth  in  the  same  gala  dress! 
Though  shadows  in  my  sunshine  play 
Thy  garb  is  just  as  green  and  gay; 
Though  echoing  sadly  my  regret 
Thy  voice  is  soft  and  soothing  yet! 
Here  every  bird  is  free  to  sing; 
Here  every  bitter  care  takes  wing, 
And  envy  loses  half  its  sting; 
Here  anger  waxes  cold  and  wan, 
And  silent  thought  has  power  to  charm; 
Here  we  may  rest  life's  weary  load, 
And  hold  communion  sweet  with  God. 


THE    LADY   OF    THE    HILL. 


IN  the  rear  of   our  dwelling,  where   the  pine   trees  sped 

away; 
When  the   mellow  twilight  deepened,  and  the  stars  were 

out  at  play, 

Came  a  voice  in  mocking  syllables,  both  musical  and  sweet, 
The  shouts  of  merry  children,  responsively  to  greet. 


Above  the  sighing  forest  leaves  the   sportsman   ofttimes 

heard 

The  roar  of  other  musketry,  resounding  deep  and  weird; 
The  cowboy,  in  the  pathless  wood,  felt  desolate  and  lone; 
Puzzled,  between  two  tinkling  bells  so  very  like  his  own! 

Even  the  dogs,  that  bay  the   moon,  were   fretted  into  rage 
By  deep-mouthed  blusterers,  and   then  a  canine  war  was 

waged, 
Which   woke   the  sullen    hours  of    night,   and   made    the 

welkin  ring, 
As  if  the  furies,  all  let  loose,  had   claimed  a  right  to  sing. 


What  wonder  if,  in  ancient  days,  when  science  was  un 
known, 

And  people  for  mysterious  things  had  reasons  of  their 
own, 

That  satyrs  lived  in  grottoes,  and  wood-nymphs  filled  the 
groves, 

And  eldritch  voices  sounded  from  wooded  dells  and  coves? 

(40) 


THE  LAD  Y  OF   THE  PULL.  41 

Translated  into  poetry,  the  German,  Herder,  gives 
The  thought,  so  very  beautiful,  which  in  this  legend  lives; 
"  Harmonia,"  Jove's  agent,  in  framing   earth  and  heaven, 
A  sound,  to  every  living  thing,  had  from  her  bosom  given. 

She  was  only  half  immortal,  and  striving  thus  to  bless, 

A  sacrifice  she  soon  became  to  her  own  tenderness; 

But  then,  the  part  divine  remained,  and  when   she  came 

to  die, 
She  craved  to  visit  earth  unseen,  and  repeat  her  children's 

cry. 

Jupiter  touched  her  gently,  and  an  echo  she  became, 
Invisible,  all-pervading,  but  in  tenderness  the  same; 
Where'er  her  children's  voices  sound,  in  sorrows,  or  in 

joys, 
The    mother's    heart    its    sweetest    charm    of    sympathy 

employs. 

The  flinty  rock  it  pierces,  and  every  nook  and  grove 
Reverberant  is,  with  cadences  of  pity  and  of  love; 
No  discord  o'er  this  loving  harp  was  ever  known  to  roll, 
But  every  chord  inclusive  forms  a  diapason  whole. 

And  yet  she  holds  in  strict  reserve  a  matron's  sacred  claim 
That  Nature's  law  inviolate  her  children  shall  maintain; 
No  kind  response  she  murmurs  to  those  who  cross  her  will, 
Or  fail  to  note  the  angles  of  this  "  Lady  of  the  Hill"! 

A  shadowy  lesson  here  we  con,  from  old  ancestral  lore, 
Of  truth,  in  folly's  painted  guise,  discussed  long,  long  ago; 
The  broodings  of  a  mother's  love,  symbolical,  doth  show 
How  Nature's  faithful  guardianship  endureth  evermore! 


ELEGY. 

LIEUT.  JOHN   BAVLE   MORAGNE,   KILLED  AT  THE 
"GARITA   DE   BELEN,"   SEPT.   13,   1847. 

HE  hath  passed  away  from  his  childhood's  home, 

And  from  that  group  of  love 
Which  clustered  round  the  old  hearthstone 

Ere  any  chanced  to  rove. 
Those  scattered  ones  may  come  again 

To  the  place  they  loved  of  yore; 
But  mournful  will  that  meeting  be, — 

He'll  meet  with  them  no  more. 

He  hath  passed  away  from  the  joyous  throng, 

From  the  circles  of  the  gay; 
No  eye  than  his  more  brightly  shone 

In  the  halls  of  revelry. 
They'll  meet  again,  those  friends  he  loved, 

And  wear  the  smiles  they  wore; 
But  when  they  join  in  dance  and  song, 

He'll  join  with  them  no  more! 

He  hath  passed  away  from  the  martial  host, 

From  his  place  among  the  brave; 
Their  ranks  are  thin,  their  leaders  lost. 

And  yet  their  banners  wave. 
His  own  may  mingle  with  the  bands 

That  rush  to  meet  the  foe; 
But  when  they  march  to  fife  and  drum 

He'll  march  with  them  no  more! 
(42) 


ELEGY.  43 

No  more,  no  more,  for  silent  now 

The  voice  they  once  obeyed; 
And  sadly  on  his  pale,  cold  brow, 

His  dark  brown  locks  are  laid. 
So  beautiful,  so  much  like  life, 

Yet  mournful  tokens  tell, 
That  in  the  battle's  fiercest  strife 

And  deadliest  front  he  fell. 

He  fell!    And  there  are  some  who  say 

'Tis  glorious  thus  to  die, 
When  the  gallant  blood  is  mounting  high 

In  the  clasp  of  victor}"; 
But  dearer  far  to  me  than  all 

The  deeds  of  noblest  birth, 
Is  the  gem  that  in  his  heart  was  worn, 

The  gem  of  modest  worth. 

They  tell  me  by  the  couch  of  pain 

He  lingered  long  and  kind, 
And  that  his  tear-drops  fell  like  rain, 

The  broken  heart  to  bind. 
They  tell  me  that  on  comrade's  weal 

His  tenderest  thoughts  were  bent; 
And  that  to  soothe  a  soldier's  woe 

His  little  all  was  spent. 

Oh,  breathe  no  more  that  bitter  boast 

Of  walls  and  trenches  gained! 
So  fondly  loved,  so  early  lost, 

He  lies  among  the  slain! 
And  many  a  comrade,  brave  and  true, 

Lies  coldly  by  his  side. 
Ah,  Glory!  falcdst  thou  not  that  day 

Thv  noblest  victims  died  ? 


44  LAYS  FROM   THE  .SV.V.VK  LANDS. 

Build  high,  build  high  of  marble  dust, 

For  the  stern,  unflinching  great, 
Whose  iron  steps  have  left  no  trace 

Of  the  heart's  first  tender  traits; 
He  needs  it  not;  within  the  halls 

Where  his  early  footsteps  moved 
His  monument  is  reared,  and  'tis 

A  monument  of  love! 


GO  FORWARD. 


"And  the   Lord  said  unto  Moses,  Wherefore  criest  thou  unto  me? 
Speak  to  the  children  of  Israel  that  they  go  forward." 

"  WHY  criest  thou  unto  me?    Have  I  not  borne 
Thee  on  my  bosom  as  a  first-born  son? 
In  nothing  have  I  ever  said  thee  nay; 
And  wilt  thou  turn  thy  pilgrimage  to-day? 
Go  forward! " 

"  But,  Lord,  these  craggy  rocks  we  cannot  pass, 
On  each  side  garrisons  do  hold  us  fast; 
No  ships  are  anchored  on  this  ruddy  sea." 

"  But  I  am  here!     Leave  the  event  with  me. 
Go  forward!" 

"Ah,  Lord,  the  hosts  do  tremble  now  with  fear. 
The  Egyptians'  chariots  are  rolling  near, 
The  night  is  dark,    the  children  weak  and  small." 

"  My  name  Jehova-Jireh  is;   fear  not  at  all. 
Go  forward! " 

!• 
"  What!  through  the  sea  which  must  us  all  o'erwhelm? 

How  shall  the  babes  and  weak  the  waters  stem? 
These  straits  a  snare  unto  thy  people  prove." 
"  I  brought  thee  here  to  try  thy  faith  and  love. 
Go  forward! " 

Pilgrims  of  earth,  wherever  you  may  be, 
Pressed  in  between  your  "  Migdols"  and  the  sea, 

(45) 


4  6  LA  YS  FROM  THE  SUNNY  LANDS. 

Jehovah  in  his  mercy  says  to  you: 
"  Fear  not;  I  will  provide  a  passage  through. 
Go  forward ! " 

Man,  who  thy  Christian  journey  hast  begun, 
And  hast  already  many  victories  won, 
Wouldst  thou  turn  back  this  side  the  sea  of  death? 
The  Egyptians  are  behind,  snares  right  and  left. 
Go  forward! 

Oh,  weary  mother!  faint  and  sore  oppressed, 
Because,  as  yet,  thy  prayers  have  not  been  blessed, 
Nor  fruit  from  tears  and  counsels  thou  canst  see, 
"  Doubt  not,"  thy  Saviour  says;  "but,  trusting  me, 
Go  forward! " 

Servant  of  God!  whose  talents  have  been  given 
To  rescue  man  from  sin,  and  nobly  striven 
Without  thy  toil's  reward,  he  says  to  thee: 
"The  work  is  thine,  mine  shall  the  issue  be. 
Go  forward! " 

Oh!   ye  who  walk  in  poverty's  low  vale, 
The  way  is  dark,  your  props  and  comforts  fail, 
And  heaven  seems  deaf  unto  your  helpless  cry; 
Look  up,  the  Saviour  speaks:  "  No  good  thing  I  deny. 
Go  forward ! " 

Go  forward,  then,  where  duty's  path  may  be. 
Stand  not  in  mute  amazement  by  the  sea 
Whose  floods  oppose  you,  for  your  God  has  said: 
"Up,  and  be  doing;  I  the  waves  will  tread. 
Go  forward ! " 


GO  FORWARD. 

Go  forward  to  the  end.     His  will  abide 
Though  snares  and  sins  beset  on  every  side. 
Press  on  through  duty;  you  shall  find,  at  last, 
The  waters  opening  for  your  feet  to  pass. 
Go  forward ! 


THE    MILLER  AND    THE    CAMEL. 

A   FABLE. 

THERE  is  a  story  told  by  Eastern  men, 

Which  picturesquely  describes  the  tempter,  when, 

With  soft  approaches  he  at  first  doth  come 
Seeking  admittance  to  the  heart,  and  then, 
Making  his  most  malignant  purpose  plain, 

When  he  hath  made  the  fortress  all  his  own. 

A  miller,  while  his  grist  was  running  low, 
Had  cosily  prepared  to  take  a  snore; 

But  startled  from  his  leisure  was,  to  see 
A  camel  thrust  his  nose  in  at  the  door; 
And  rising  quickly  from  the  dusty  floor, 

He  asked  the  cause  of  this  strange  mystery. 

'  Tis  very  cold  outside,"  the  camel  said, — 
'  I  only  wish  to  warm  my  nose,  indeed  ! " 

The  miller  laid  him  down,  good  easy  man! 
And  to  the  camel  gave  no  farther  heed; 
Who  opened  for  himself  just  room  to  read, 
The  comfort  of  the  refuge  he  would  gain. 

'  The  wind  is  very  sharp,"  at  length  he  sighed; 
'  Pray  let  me  only  get  my  neck  inside." 

The  miller,  in  his  dreamy  mood,  just  now, 
Could  not  refuse  request  so  meekly  plied, 
And  without  more  ado  the  door  spread  wide 
Enough  for  crooked  neck  to  make  his  bow. 

(48) 


THE  MILLER  AND   THE  CAMEL. 

The  meekness  of  his  victim  suits  his  plan. 
With  modest  urgency,  he  cries  again  : 

"  How  fast  the  rain-drops  now  begin  to  fall; 
Though  rough  my  coat,  I  am  not  water-proof; 
Do  let  me  place  my  shoukters  'neath  your  roof, — 

Grant  me  but  this,  I'll  ask  no  more  at  all  !" 

The  shoulders  in,  he  soon  forgot  his  vow, 
And  more  exorbitantly  growing,  now, 

He  asked  a  little,  and  a  little  more, 
Till  sure  of  his  success,  and  seeing  how 
His  strength  would  great  advantages  allow, 

He  pushed  his  body  quite  inside  the  door! 

No  sooner  thus  ensconced,  than  growing  rude. 
He  on  the  miller's  comfort  'gan  intrude, 

And  stretched  him  by  the  fire,  nothing  loath. 
His  manners  erst  were  very  sweet  and  good, 
But  now,  the  miller  sadly  understood, 

The  house  was  far  too  small  to  hold  them  both. 

The  rain  was  over,  there  was  no  excuse, 
And  so  the  miller  now, —  the  silly  goose!  — 

Most  civilly  desired  he  would  depart. 
'  Go  then  yourself  ! "  replied  the  saucy  beast. 
'  As  for  myself,  I  am  at  home,  at  least  ! 

I  here  shall  stay,  and  act  the  master's  part." 

A  camel  thus  knocks  daily  at  the  heart 

Of  all  who  do  not  choose  "  the  better  part." 

Silent  and  crafty  does  it  first  begin; 
But  growing  bold,  each  step  it  gains  by  art 
It  firmly  holds;  nor  will  it  thence  depart 

Until  entire  possession  it  doth  win! 


50  LAYS  FROM  Tin-:  SUNNY  LANDS. 

It  knocks  at  every  door,  but  most,  I  ween, 
Where  are  the  idle  and  the  thoughtless  seen, 

Who,  like  the  miller,  taken  off  their  guard, 
Listen,  half  dreaming,  to  his  specious  plea, 
Open  the  door  before  they  danger  see, 

And  yield  themselves  unto  a  master,  hard. 

Then  binding  fast  the  u<ill,  he  rules  the  rest 
With  iron  sway, —  no  longer  guest 

But  sovereign,  all  the  powers  of  mind  obey 
Implicitly  his  maddening,  wild  behest, 
Till  truth  and  virtue  lose  their  former  zest, 

And  the  poor  soul  becomes  of  death  the  prey. 


THE    RANCHERO'S    CHILD. 

FROM  a  distant  ranch  in  the  wild,  wild  West, — 
And  leaning  against  his  stalwart  breast 
Was  a  labeled  box  on  his  saddle-bow, — 
A  rider  came  to  the  station's  door 

He  was  young  and  stout,  but  a  haggard  smile 
Disfigured  his  face.     To  his  gestures,  wild, 
His  open  collar,  and  hair  unkempt, 
A  dark  suspicion  of  frenzy  lent. 

'  Is  the  train  come  in  ? "  he  asked  in  haste; 
'  For  see,  I  have  no  time  to  waste. 

This  box  must  go,  right  instantly! 

I  will  do  to  her  as  she  done  to  me! " 

'  What  has  she  done?"  the  agent  asked, 
As  in  the  prairie  sun  he  basked. 
You  see  she  left  me,  this  wife  of  mine, — 
Went  back  to  the  East,  to  her  folks,  so  fine! 

'  But  that  wasn't  all  !  —  our  only  child  — 
Deserted  it, /too,  in  the  ranches  wild  ! 
The  dearest,  the  sweetest  little  thing, 
Just  learnin'  how  to  crow  and  sing! 

'  What  could  a  poor  young  ranchman  do, 
Who  never  the  ways  of  a  baby  knew? 
But  I  bore  it  through  heavy  work  all  day, 
And  then  on  my  bosom,  at  night,  it  lay. 

(SO 


52  LA  YS  FROM  THE  SUNNY  LANDS. 

"  I  nursed  it,  and  fed  it,  but  it  wouldn't  do, — 
The  little  one's  heart  was  breaking,  too  ;  — 
And  then,  as  I've  heard  the  preacher  say, — 
Stranger,  she  was  too  good  to  stay ! 

"  I've  heard  "em  say,  and  I  think  it's  true, 
God  took  her  away.     Her  eyes  were  so  blue, — 
Just  like  her  mother's, — but  that  wasn't  much,- 
Her  sweet  ways  round  my  heart-strings  clutch. 

"  I  couldn't  bury  her, —  I  felt  so  bad, — 
It  may  be,  then,  I  was  going  mad; 
For  I  thought  I  would  let  her  mother  see 
I  would  do  to  her  as  she  done  to  me! 

"  But  I  hear  the  whistle  a  comin'  in, — 
I  must  see  her,  before  she^wj,  ag'in." 
And  the  father  lifted  the  rough  deal  lid 
Which  the  pale  sweet  face  of  his  baby  hid, 

He  fell  on  the  box  with  a  smothered  groan: 
"  No,  stranger,  I  cannot  live  alone! 
In  the  East  my  baby  shall  never  be! 
It's  better  for  her  and  better  for  me." 

So  he  closed  the  lid  of  the  box,  once  more; 
And  in  his  stalwart  arms  he  bore 
The  precious  freight  to  his  horse's  mane, 
And  seizing  the  rein,  rode  home  again. 

Under  a  tree,  where  the  sage  boughs  wave, 

And  close  to  his  hut,  he  dug  a  grave. 

A  wild-rose  on  its  bosom  grew, 

Weeping  each  morn  with  the  evening's  dew. 


THE  RANCHERO'S  CHILD.  53 

And  on  this  grave,  at  set  of  sun, 
When  the  toilsome  close  of  the  day  was  won, 
The  ranchman  lay,  in  his  lonely  grief, 
And  talked  to  his  darling,  underneath. 


SUNSET    AMONG    THE    MOUNTAINS. 

"  What  a  pillow,  embroidered  of  all  colors,  hath  the  dying  day  !  " 

—  Talmagf. 

THE  "  tip-top  crags"  of  the  mountain's  brow 

Are  gilded  with  transient  glory  now, 

As  the  last  red  beams  of  departing  day, 

Striking  aslant,  from  their  turrets  gray, 

Through  the  dark  green  boughs  of  ubiquitous  pine, 

And  where  sweet  stretches  of  vale  incline, 

Long  lines  of  light  and  shade  display! 

On  the  tasseled  floor  of  the  forest's  home, 

Bright,  tremulous  drops  of  silver  shone, 

Playing  at  hide  and  seek,  so  gay! 

But  fled,  at  the  night-fall's  touch,  away. 

The  starling's  sweet  ripple  was  heard  just  now, 

Where  the  cool  leaves  weighted  with  moisture  bow. 

The  flowers  seem  hanging  their  heads  to  weep; 

And  the  birds  have  gone  to  their  restful  sleep. 

But  see  those  castles  of  cloud  on  high! 

There  are  "  burning  Moscows  "  in  the  sky! 

There  are  gardens  of  roses,  purple  and  gold, 

Opal  and  crimson;  all  unfold 

Their  softest  shades,  and  their  deepest  blush, 

While  banners  of  vapor,  red  and  flush, 

Seem  "  warring  hosts"  in  the  evening's  hush. 

Oh!  mineral  crags,  in  the  sunset's  blaze! 
Oh!  cradle  of  clouds,  in  the  vapory  haze! 
I  often  wonder  if  heaven's  wall 

(54) 


SUNSET  AMONG  THE  MOUNTAINS.  55 

Is  more  brightly  burnished  with  gems,  than  all 
Your  castles,  and  turrets,  and  minarets  bright, 
Which,  acting  as  prisms  for  heaven's  light, 
Evolve  these  spectrums,  so  fair  to  the  sight! 

I  often  ask  if  those  "  Mansions  "  fair, 
Where  Christ  with  his  glorified  saints  appear, 
Are  decked  in  more  gorgeous  robes  than  these 
That  hang  on  the  skirts  of  the  evening  breeze \ 
I  sometimes  think  'tis  an  angel's  wing, 
Opening  the  gates  as  they  enter  in 
To  meet  their  Lord!  —  those  souls  that  shine 
In  the  light  that's  borrowed  from  grace  divine. 

Or  it  may  be  the  portals,  left  ajar 
That  all  who  so  weary  of  darkness  are 
May  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  golden  streets, 
Or  the  jeweled  throne,  where  amethyst  meets 
With  jasper,  and  beryl,  and  every  stone 
To  the  bright  mineralogy  of  heaven  known, — 
Where  each  as  a  chrystal  mirror  stands 
Reflecting  the  face  of  the  glorious  Lamb! 


MY  SISTERS. 

FAR  away  in  the  depths  of  the  evergreen  bowers. 
They  lie  side  by  side  in  the  sweet  land  of  flowers. 
'Twas  the  land  of  their  love,  not  the  land  of  their  birth, 
And  she  gave  them  a  home  in  her  bosom  of  earth. 

She  gave  them  a  home,  but  to  her  they  had  brought 
No  wealth,  save  the  culture  that  sorrow  had  taught, 
Of  pity  and  kindness,  refinement  and  truth, 
And  all  the  sweet  graces  of  beauty  and  youth. 

There's  a  song-bird  that  trills  in  the  bright  orange  groves, 
A  marvel  of  sweetness  to  one  that  it  loves; 
But  sweeter  than  all  that  the  song-bird  has  trilled 
Were  the  voices  the  Angel  of  Mercy  has  stilled. 

There's  a  star  hanging  low  on  the  blue  western  sky, 
More  steadfast  and  bright  than  all  others  on  high, 
Which  sprinkle  with  amber  and  spread  out  a  dome, 
Like  the  wing  of  an  angel,  o'er  every  home. 

But  gentler,  and  sweeter,  and  truer,  by  far, 
Than  the  song  of  the  bird,  or  the  light  of  the  star, 
Were  the  hearts  in  which  home-loving  virtues  could  blend 
To  form  the  sweet  union  of  sister  and  friend! 

Yet  not  for  the  welfare  of  kindred  alone 

W-ere  their  zeal  and  devotion  so  ardently  shown; 

They  wrought  for  the  Saviour,  to  whom  they  had  given 

That  love  which  can  be  anchored  only  in  heaven! 

(56) 


MY  SISTERS.  57 

Thus  heavenward  bound,  in  the  morning  of  life, 
Our  God  shut  them  in  from  its  cares  and  its  strife; 
And  the  orphans  were  borne  to  a  much  sweeter  clime 
Than  any  that  shelves  on  the  ocean  of  time. 

Oh,  river  of  lakes!  on  thy  beautiful  shore 
There  were  visions  of  joy  thou  shalt  mirror  no  more;  • 
But  the  long  moss  that  droops  from  thy  shadowy  trees 
Sighs  a  requiem  sad  in  the  tropical  breeze. 


LINES   FOR  THE  ALBUM  OF  A  YOUNG 
FRIEND. 

* 

COME,  in  your  life's  bright  morn; 
Come,  while  the  current  of  your  life  beats  high; 
Come,  while  the  roses  that  your  cheek  adorn 
Are  radiant  with  the  hues  of  hope  and  joy. 

Bend  low  before  his  altar,  meekly  place 
Your  youth  and  beauty  as  an  offering  there, 
And  of  your  kind  Redeemer  ask  the  grace 
To  keep  you  from  this  world's  bewitching  snare. 

Come,  while  your  heart  is  free; 

Come,  while  your  thoughts  are  all  unvexed  with  care; 
Come,  ere  some  earthly  idol  there  you  see 
Stealing  the  incense  which  should  burn  in  prayer. 

Your  best  affections  garner  up  for  him 
Who  well  deserves  much  more  than  you  can  give; 
And,  while  unshackled  by  the  cords  of  sin, 
Resolve  in  your  best  strength  for  him  to  live. 

Bring  all  your  valued  gifts; 

Bring  all  the  wealth  of  genius,  learning,  taste; 

And  to  his  service  consecrating  this, 

A  heart  of  pure  devotion  on  it  place. 

Think  not  that  cause- demands  a  price  too  large 
Which  brought  the  King  of  Glory  from  his  throne; 

(58) 


LINES  FOR  AN  ALBUM.  59 

Nor  from  the  dregs  of  mind  that  debt  discharge 
Which  cost  him  all  the  riches  of  his  own. 

Twill  task  the  mightiest  efforts  of  your  zeal 
Your  own  salvation  to  "  werk  out"  with  care; 
And  to  effect  your  own  and  neighbor's  weal 
The  noblest  energies  that  you  can  spare. 

Oh!  spend  them  not  on  pleasures,  such  as  fill, 

But  never  satisfy  the  hearts  that  sip, 

Which,  like  the  Dead  Sea  fruits,  look  tempting  still, 

But  turn  to  worthless  ashes  on  the  lip! 

But  use  t/ie/ii  for  his  glory,  and  as  gems 
They'll  sparkle  in  your  coronal  of  youth; 
And  from  the  Master,  you  at  length  shall  claim  ' 
A  crown  of  beauty  and  unfading  truth. 


THE  HUGUENOT'S  FAREWELL. 


HOME  of  my  youth,  farewell! 

My  father's  home,  where  erst 
In  joy  and  gladness  I  was  wont  to  dwell, 

And  if  a  cloud  of  sadness  o'er  me  burst 
'Twas  lighted  by  a  tenderness  divine, 
And  all  of  love  and  sympathy  made  mine. 

The  room  that  was  mine  own,  the  garden  bowers, 

Once  dear  to  me  as  the  elysian  fields 
To  the  old  Grecians, —  others  cull  the  flowers, 

And  strangers  gather  up  the  sweets  they  yield. 
There  are  no  hearts  within  my  native  halls 
To  read  the  pictures  graven  on  its  walls. 

The  hallowed  mem'ries  of  a  hundred  years! 

Breathing  from  stream,  and  dell,  and  forest  wide, 
Of  those  who  fled  from  tyranny  and  tears, 

And  found  the  home  their  God  did  here  provide! 
And  these  must  slumber  now,  to  wake  no  more 
In  answering  tones  forever;  for  I  go, — 

And  with  me  all  that  hold  these  mem'ries  dear! 

For  they  have  faded,  one  by  one,  away, — 
Those  pious  worshippers, —  and  lone  and  drear 

The  west  wind  sighs  above  their  house  of  clay. 
Mingling  with  foreign  tones,  which  seem  to  me 
.A  requiem  sad,  home  of  my  sires,  to  thee! 
(60) 


THE  HUGUENOT'S  FAREWELL.  61 

Church  of  my  heart,  farewell, 

Church  of  my  earliest  love! 
Where  first  devotion,  in  its  choral  swell 

Swept  my  young  thoughts  above. 

What  solemn  whisp'rings  through  those  sacred  aisles 
Bring  back  the  guardians  of  my  youth,  whose  eyes, — 

If  now  they  look  on  me, —  I  see  them  not 

Nor  know;    but  ever  there 
A  consciousness  of  union  made  the  spot 
More  blest  than  aught  elsewhere. 
Had  we  not  sat  together  at  that  board, 
And  at  that  altar  given  our  hearts  to  God  ? 

But  from  these  sacred  portals  I  must  go, 
Like  some  sad  dove,  to  seek  another  ark, 

To  shelter  her  young  nurselings  from  the  woe 
Of  friendless  poverty.      But  hark!  — 

'Tis  my  young  brothers,  sleeping  in  their  pride, 

And  her  who  bore  them  resting  by  their  side. 

And  white-haired  sire  and  gentle  sisters  call, — 

Asking  reproachfully  if  never  more 
Shall  tear  of  kindred  on  their  marble  fall; 

Nor  loving  fingers  pluck  the  weeds  that  grow 
Above  their  turf;  No!  loved  ones, —  No!  oblivion's  spell 
Is  deeper  than  the  grave.     Farewell!     Farewell! 

Land  of  my  birth, —  farewell! 

The  land  of  heroes  and  of  chivalry! 
The  many  sorrows  to  my  lot  which  fell 

Have  not  obliterated  love  for  thee; 
Yet,  loving  thee,  I  leave  thee,  not  with  pain; 
For  thou  hast  been  my  parent  but  in  name! 


62  LA  YS  FROM  THE  SUNNY  LANDS. 

Still,  I,  thy  step-child,  looked  with  honest  pride 

Upon  thy  tree  of  state,  so  fair  and  high; 
Whose  roots,  then  seeking  nurture,  far  and  wide, 

Were  watered  with  my  tears  in  days  gone  by: 
That  blood  which  helped  to  raise  its  bright  renown 
From  the  best  fountain  of  my  heart  was  drawn. 
*  *  *  *  *  *      • 

Storm-rent, —  alas!  —  the  proud  Palmetto  lies, 

Whose  roots  once  wrapped  thee  in  a  cordon  strong; 
And  jarring  dissonance  that  harp  supplies 

In  other  days  so  resonant  with  song; 
Yet,  gallant  State!  though  prostrate  in  the  dust 
A  lion's  cub  thou  art  !  as  at  the  first. 


AFTER    THE    BATTLE. 

Two  young  officers,  seeking  each  other  among  the  slain  on  the  field  of 
Churubusco,  met  unexpectedly,  and  fell  into  each  other's  arms  and  wept. 

THEY  had  been  friends  in  all  their  happy  youth; 

No  bickerings  foul  had  ever  stained  the  truth 

Of  boyhood's  games,  or  manhood's  pleasant  dreams; 

And  now,  amid  the  harshest,  bitterest  scenes 

Which  camp  life  in  a  foreign  land  has  shown, 

That  love  had  to  a  wild  devotion  grown, 

Absorbing  as  the  exile's  dream  of  home, 

Soft  as  a  mother's  tenderness  alone; 

As  one  when  cast  upon  some  desert  strand 

Hails  the  dear  ensigns  of  his  native  land. 

Saved!    while  the  darts  of  death  the  field  had  swept, 

What  wonder  if  they  there  embraced  and  wept? 

Around  them  lay  the  dying  and  the  dead, 

The  beautiful,  the  brave,  and  they  who  led 

The  "hosts"  that  day, —  the  chieftain  of  the  band, 

And  all  the  flower  of  that  sunny  land 

Called  the  "  Palmetto."     Sorrow  and  despair, 

Like  a  funereal  pall,  hung  drooping  there; 

And  victory  its  eagle  pinions  furled 

Over  the  trophies  of  a  fallen  world. 

Amid  the  dying  groans,  the  shouts,  the  strife, 

The  anguished  faces,  and  the  joy  of  life, — 

Saved!    while  so  many  comrades  round  them  slept, 

They  rushed  into  each  other's  arms  and  wept! 

(63) 


64  LAYS  FXOM  THE  SUNNY  LANDS, 

But  there  were  tenderer  visions  thronging  there 
Than  those  just  born  of  pity  and  despair  : 
The  vine-clad  beauty  of  their  sunny  home. 
The  hills  their  boyish  footsteps  loved  to  roam, 
The  rose-wreathed  porch,  the  parlor's  dear  retreat. 
The  clinging,  fond  embrace  of  sisters  sweet, 
The  mother's  dear,  confiding,  generous  smile, 
The  father's  kind,  approving  look,  so  mild, 
The  burning  hopes  of  manhood,  and  the  dreams 
Which  love's  sweet  presence  wakens, — all  these  scenes 
Tumultuous  rushed  before  them,  through  the  cloud 
Of  doubt  and  fear,  hung  o'er  them  like  a  shroud. 
Saved!    while  these  melting  memories  o'er  them  crept, 
Of  home  and  loved  ones  :    Is  it  strange  they  -i<ept? 

The  elder  brother  looked  with  yearning  gaze, 

To  see  the  sunny  glance  of  "  other  days," 

Into  his  brother's  hazel  eyes,  but  met 

Ambition's  fire.     Disease  had  only  yet 

Faded  the  dark  brown  curls  and  paled  the  brow; 

The  warrior-spirit  sparkled  even  now! 

A  span  of  years  divided  them,  but  then. 

He  to  the  name  of  brother  added  friend. 

Oh!  with  a  mother's  thoughtful,  loving  care. 

That  brother-friend  had  watched  him  through  the  war! 

On  the  last  march, — 'twas  just  the  night  before, — 

He  on  his  shoulders  through  the  canon  bore 

The  feeble  soldier,  wading  the  cold  stream 

O'er  the  sharp  pedrigral  of  the  ravine. 

The  "  long-roll "  beat;  he  to  his  duty  fled, 

And  left  the  sufferer  in  the  canon's  bed, — 

Saved!  while  no  hope  was  left  to  them  except 

The  hope  to  meet  again.     Oh,  marvel  not  they  wept! 


AFTER  THE  BA  TTLE.  65 

Prophetic!  too  prophetic  tears  were  they; 

For  soon  upon  a  bed  of  sickness  lay 

The  elder  one.    Yet,  parted  by  the  cruel  chance  of  war 

He  thought  not  of  himself,  though  death  seemed  near, 

But  of  his  brother's  fate,  to  him  unknown, 

And  of  a  mother,  grieving  for  her  son! 

Thus  racked  he  lay.     One  dreadful  night  there  came 

A  slender,  weak,  attenuated  frame 

And  sat  beside  the  couch.      Next  morn 

The  drum's  "  long-roll  "  was  beating;  he  was  gone! 

All  day, —  the  cannon  booming  in  his  ears, — 

The  sick  man  kept  grim  death  at  bay  with  fears. 

The  firing  ceased.      In  Montezuma's  hall 

Victory  sat,  perched  upon  his  leaden  pall; 

The  ''  hosts"  within  her  palaces  reclined; 

But  many  a  noble  brave  was  left  behind, — 

Lost!  while  the  camp  fires  still  their  vigils  kept, 

That  night  one  brother  smote  his  breast  and  wept. 


THE   WHITE   CROSS    LEAGUE. 

OH,  VISION  of  holiness,  justice  and  truth! 
Oh,  beautiful  compact,  formed  for  youth; 
Of  virtue  the  very  warp  and  woof! 

Shall  woman  be  raised  to  a  chivalric  grade, 
And  thou  her  rightful  protector  made 
From  wrongs  by  sore  temptations  swayed? 

Shall  a  fallen  brother  be  helped  to  rise, 
And  a  hand  stretched  out  to  give  the  prize 
To  him  who  for  this  guerdon  tries? 

Shall  vice  in  the  scales  be  duly  weighed, 
And  to  either  sex  the  same  conveyed 
In  odium's  burning  fusillade? 

Shall  all  indecorous  words  and  songs, 
And  ribald  jests,  which  to  shame  belong, 
Be  left  to  the  coarse  and  vulgar  throng? 

Shall  purity  be  the  highest  aim 
Of  all  who  hear  this  loyal  name, 
Better  than  honor,  wealth,  or  fame? 

Oh,  league  of  joy!      Oh,  league  of  heaven, 

If  conqueror,  then  to  thee  is  given 

The  noblest  crown  for  which  man  has  striven! 

For  of  all  who  dwell  on  this  weary  sod, 
Who  sing  with  the  gay,  or  in  sorrow  plod, 
Only  t /if  pure  shall  rest  in  God! 
(66) 


LES    BELLES  AMITIES. 
IN  MEMORIAM. 

MRS.  M.  A.  WADDELL,  FIRST  WIFE  OF  DR.  J.  N.  WADDELL, 
CHANCELLOR  OF  THE  SOUTHWESTERN  UNIVERSITY, 
TENNESSEE,  FORMERLY  OF  SOUTH  CAROLINA. 

*    *     *     SOME  pictures  fair, — 

Fairer  than  Rubens,  or  than  Titian  dreamed, — 

With  bright  remembrances  that  will  not  sleep, 

Press  nightly  to  my  pillow,  in  a  tide 

Of  swelling  thought  which  strives  for  utterance. 

First: 

A  large  old  church;  two  little  fairies  there, — 
The  one  with  black,  the  other  golden  hair, — 
Met;  and  with  timid  glances  coy  and  sweet, 
With  sweetmeats  one  essayed  the  other  greet. 
The  pledge  of  amity  thus  eaten  brought 
A  deathless  friendship  for  their  after  years; 
A  spell  of  such  exquisite  pleasure  wrought 
A  charm,  so  sweetly  formed  to  lighten  cares, 
They,    like    that    goddess,    called    the    "Queen    of 

Flowers," 

Went  scattering  roses  through  their  native  bowers; 
Or,  like  a  band  of  music  down  the  street, 
Flinging  out  sweetness  unto  all  who  meet. 

Again:  The  Academia's  pleasant  shades, 
Where,  through  the  whole  long  summer  eve, 
The  slanting  sunbeams  waited  for  the  hour 

(67) 


68  LA  YS  FROM  THE  SUNNY  LANDS. 

Of  "recess"  for  these  two,  when,  hand  in  hand, — 
The  curt'sy  at  the  door  being  duly  paid, — 
They  sought,  with  loving  housewif'ry,  the  stores 
Of  shells  and  china  'neath  the  mossy  trees. 

Then,  sweet  girlhood's  rosy  hours  — 
The  garden  walk  by  moonlight;  or  the  stroll 
Along  the  river's  brink;   the  ramblings  in  the  wood 
land 

While  the  dew  still  gemmed  the  flowers;  oftenest 
On  some  old  gnarled  root  or  swinging  bough, 
Reading  aloud  the  "  tales  of  other  days." 
'Twas  beautiful  to  see  them,  hand  in  hand, 
Culling  each  beauty  from  fair  Nature's  dower; 
'Twas  beautiful  to  see  their  minds  expand. 
Extracting  wisdom  from  each  classic  flower; 
Sipping,  like  butterflies,  the  stores  that  lie 
In  the  enchanted  realms  of  Poesy; 
Gathering,  like  bees,  the  "  Hybla"  sweets  that  dwell 
In  the  old  sage's  geometric  cells. 

*  *     *     Each  leaning  on  the  other,  day  by  day, 
They  mounted  to  the  skylights  which  unrolled 
Such  drifts  of  glory  on  their  youthful  souls, 
That,  while  God's  sunlight  sweetly  on  them  shone, 
They  gave  to  others'  hearts  what  blessed  their  own. 

*  *     *     The  scene  was  changed: 

She  from  her  maiden  joy  was  early  won, 
Life's  glad,  but  graver,  duties  to  fulfill. 
A  bridal  wreath  was  thrown 
Over  the  childish  brow  of  sweet  sixteen. 

And  so  she  went, 

To  make  her  bower  beneath  a  Western  star. 
She  went,  like  Abra'am,  nothing  in  her  hand 
But  trust;  and  leaning  upon  this, 


LES  BELLES  AMITIES.  69 

She  turned  her  back  forever  on  the  hearth 

Which  once  had  warmed  her:  and  the  playmate  dear 

Of  happy  childhood  days  —  her  hand  in  his, 

Not  knowing  what  might  yet  befall  her  there. 

And  this  is  woman's  faith!  But  oft,  I  ween, 

Memory  played  truant  to  the  busy  scenes 

Of  household  love,  and  visited  the  shades 

On  her  own  hillside,  'neath  the  waving  trees, 

Where,  book  in  hand,  they  dreamed  away  the  hours, 

Or  caught  the  echoes  in  the  sounding  hall 

Made  vocal  with  the  youthful  laugh  and  song. 

*     *     *     They  met  once  more  on  earth,  and  only  once. 

More  spiritual  in  its  soft  matron  beauty 

It  had  grown,  that  young  wife's  face! 

The  noble  brow  looked  holier,  sadlier; 

The  once  laughing  eyes 

Seemed  gazing,  seer-like,  into  worlds  unknown! 

That  golden  key  which  unlocks  all  the  wards 

Of  the  heart's  cells  had  opened  to  her  gaze 

The  heritage  of  sorrow  we  have  won 

From  sin  and  death.     One  fair  boy, 

Who,  a  few  summers,  nestled  near  her  heart, 

The  Shepherd  of  the  flock  had  bid  her  lay 

In  his  own  bosom.     This  duty  done, 

She  meekly  kissed  the  rod,  and  followed  on, 

With  soft  and  quiet  tread,  the  toddling  steps 

Of  a  sweet  cherub  girl. 

With  meek  acceptance  she  endured,  or  took 

All  that  the  Shepherd  gave,  and  followed  still 

Through  gifts  or  through  denials. 

And  now,  with  loving  zeal,  she  strove  to  lead 

The  "  sister  of  her  soul"  unto  that  fount 

Whence  she  had  drawn  such  draughts  of  patient  love, 


70  LA  YS  FROM  THE  SUNNY  LANDS. 

Obedience,  and  faith. 

Her  gentle  pleadings  she  essayed  in  words 
Like  Moses"  to  his  friend:   "  '  Come,  go  with  me; 
The  Lord  hath  spoken  good  concerning  those 
Who  seek  his  love.'     One  we  have  ever  been 
In  hopes  and  joys, —  shall  we  be  parted  now?" 

*  *     *     Again  farewell  was  said:  she  to  her  home 
Returned,  and  to  its  quiet  duties,  all  fulfilled 

As  standing  in  the  presence  of  her  God. 
But,  though  in  patience  she  so  far  excelled, 
Abating  not  one  jot  of  all  that  fell 
Unto  her  lot,  she  seemed  not  all  of  earth. 

One  ear  was  turned 

To  hear  the  bleating  of  her  lamb  above; 
And  so,  after  a  few  short  years  of  duteous  toil, 
The  Shepherd  kindly  took  her  to  his  fold. 
Thus  early  went  she  from  her  trial  proof, 
Leaving  behind  this  witness  upon  earth. 

In  purity  and  truth, 
In  zeal  for  souls,  she  stood  alone! 
Beauty  may  win,  and  genius  more  may  charm; 

"  Take  her  for  all  and  all, 
We  ne'er  shall  look  upon  her  like  again!" 

*  *    *     Now  as  the  shadows  lengthen  'neath  the  feet 
Of  the  survivor,  memory  fonder  grows, 

And  more  intense  and  irrepressible  the  wish  to  look, 
As  once  she  looked,  upon  that  angel  face. 

The  birds  recall  her. 

And  the  low,  rich  sound  of  tinkling  rivulets; 
The  stars  from  heaven  seem  to  speak  of  her; 
And  dearer  and  more  urgent  grows  the  thought 
That  they  must  meet  again, 


LES  BELLES  AMITIES.  71 

Who  loved  on  earth  so  purely. 

The  vine,  grown  over  on  the  garden  wall, 

Though  rooted  here, 

Will  bud  and  blossom  on  the  other  side! 


UNFORGOTTEN   THINGS. 

As  TRAVELERS  over  burning  sands 

Pine  for  the  purling  streams, 
So  they,  who  on  life's  margin  stand, 

Yearn  for  their  early  dreams. 
Sweet  voices,  but  not  heard  for  years, 

Come  through  the  shadowy  gloom 
Of  wasted  hopes  and  bitter  tears, 

And  whisper,  softly,  "  Home." 
Then,  seated  at  our  mother's  knee, 

The  world  looks  bright  again  ; 
And  eyes  speak  only  truthfully; 

And  hearts  are  free  from  pain. 

They  come,  the  fair,  the  brave,  the  good, 

Who  trod  our  paths  of  old; 
We  hear  the  laugh  of  maidenhood  — 

That  music  of  the  soul! 
The  singing  birds,  the  tinkling  brooks. 

Glad  thoughts  again  can  weave; 
We  lie  within  the  mossy  nooks 

Beneath  the  rustling  leaves; 
The  wild  flowers,  with  their  tangles  bright, 

Breathe  fragrance  round  us  yet; 
And  on  the  starry  brow  of  Night 

Beauty  and  Love  are  met. 

Nor  do  we  now  forget  the  joy 
When  Knowledge  first  unrolled 

Her  ample  page;  when  Science  coy 
Poured  out  her  pearls  and  gold; 

(72) 


UNFORGOTTEN  THINGS.  73 

When  Music  woke  an  infant  lyre 

Within  our  heart  of  hearts; 
And  Beauty  brought  poetic  fire 

To  touch  the  strings  of  Art. 
Oh,  blessed  lore  of  things  Divine, 

Which  Nature's  arms  enfold! 
Bright  jewels  from  the  eternal  mine, 

Laid  in  the  ages  old! 

But  garnered  up  with  tenderest  care 

Among  my  precious  things, 
Are  faces  which  for  me  would  wear 

The  smile  approval  brings; 
The  trust  in  what  I  seemed, —  the  love 

That  could  opine  no  blame 
In  faults  which  might  all  others  move 

To  pity  or  condemn. 
There's  not  a  tone  or  thought  which  claimed 

An  interest  in  my  lot, 
There's  not  a  wish,  by  Friendship  framed, 

My  heart  remembers  not! 

The  glowing  tints  of  "  Love's  young  dream  " 

My  memory  must  retain; 
Like  sunset  waves  its  beauty  seems 

On  Evening's  dark  domain. 
That  sun  of  life  is  going  down; 

But  ever,  on  my  soul, 
The  thrill  it  woke  in  days  by-gone, 

In  tidal  wave  doth  roll. 
The  long,  long  years  of  faithfulness, 

Which  never  brought  regret, 
The  voice  that  only  spoke  to  bless, — 

How  could  I  e'er  forget? 


74  LA  YS  FROM  THE  SUNNY  LANDS. 

The  mariner  far  out  at  sea 

Heeds  not  the  landsman's  mirth; 
His  eyes  are  fixed  adoringly, 

But  not  on  things  of  earth. 
Thus,  through  the  mists  and  storms  of  time, 

My  Pole-star  shines  above, 
Kindling  a  glow  of  thought  sublime, 

A  sense  of  pardoning  love! 
Cold  be  my  heart  as  nether  stone, 

From  thought  and  memory  free, 
If  ever  I  forget  to  own 

What  Jesus  did  for  me! 


THE    GLORY   AND   THE    GRIEF. 

I  SAW  it  in  my  dreams, —  a  face 

I  had  not  seen  for  years;  — 

'Twas  beautiful,  though  seen  through  tears; 
For  thoughts,  long  buried,  came  apace, — 

In  rainbow  visions,  hued  with  gold;  — 
As  clouds  that  scud  before  the  wind 
Fly  swiftly,  and  no  more  are  seen, 

Leaving  the  sky  so  gray  and  cold, — 

Thus  quickly  fled  my  new  delight  — 
And  left  a  blank  within  my  soul; 
For  all  at  once  he  seemed  so  old! 

His  manner  void  of  softness  —  quite. 

He  clasped  my  hand  in  jejune  haste. 
What  was  there  ominous  in  this 
To  treasures  of  remembered  bliss 

When  he  was  young  and  full  of  grace? 

When  in  the  rosy  hours  of  youth 
We  drank  in  beauty  with  the  flowers 
And  thought  all  hearts  as  pure  as  ours 

And  all  the  world  as  full  of  truth! 

"  Is  earth  alone  the  scene  of  love? 
Do  all  emotions  of  the  heart 
From  off  the  spirit's  glow  depart 
When  transferred  to  the  worlds  above?" 

(75) 


76  LA  YS  FROM  THE  SUiVATY  LAXDS. 

'Twas  mildly  asked, —  and  as  I  gazed, 

His  features  hard  and  stony  grew; 
"No  matter,  I  am  aged,  too! 
And  now  in  winter's  purple  haze." 

We  stood  apart.     But  as  I  conned 
The  wonder  o'er,  it  seemed  to  me 
The  picture  showed  what  he  should  be 

If  to  this  world  he  had  belonged. 

And  now,  again,  the  mirror  smiled 
As  o'er  it  swept  a  vision  fair: 
He  in  his  youth  was  pictured  there! 

And  I  to  death  was  reconciled. 

Immortal  beauty  I  could  trace, — 
Immortal  virtue  in  his  eye, 
And  tenderness  that  could  not  die 

Daguerrotyped  upon  his  face. 

And  I  to  death  was  reconciled;  — 
For  then  I  saw,  that  Love  Divine, 
Which  so  much  tenderer  was  than  mine 

Had  from  the  woes  of  earth  beguiled  — 

His  soul  away  to  distant  skies, 

Where  beauty  never  could  grow  less, 
Nor  age  make  hard,  nor  want  distress, 

Nor  life  become  a  thing  despised. 


LINES    TO    A    MAGNOLIA    BUD. 

SENT  FROM   SOUTH  ALABAMA   BY  MY  LITTLE 
FRIENDS,  GEORGE  AND    FRANK    M . 

SWEET  flow'ret  of  our  Southern  soil, 

Opening  thy  petals  fair, 
Above  our  Country's  sin  and  toil, 

Like  Hope,  above  despair. 

Blest  token  of  our  Father's  love; 

Who,  when  this  world  of  ours 
So  recreant  to  its  trust  had  proved, 

Still  left  with  us  the  flowers. 

Thou  bringest  back  the  joy  of  old 

When  I  was  young  and  gay; 
Some  things  have  faded  from  my  soul, 

But  this  can  ne'er  decay. 

Yet,  brighter  than  thy  snowy  plumes, 

And  richer  than  thy  leaves, 
More  fragrant  than  the  sweet  perfume 

Thou  waftest  on  the  breeze, — 

The  kindly  thought  that  sent  thee  here, 

My  sorrows  to  assuage, — 
That  reverence  is,  of  all,  most  dear, 

Which  childhood  gives  to  age. 

And  thus,  my  little  friends,  may  all 
Your  actions  blessings  be, 

(77) 


78  LA  YS  FROAI  THE  SUNNY  LANDS. 

And  all  your  future  life  recall 
What  you  have  done  for  me! 

Love  God,  love  Nature,  and  love  Truth. 

Love  all  that  God  has  made; 
And  with  the  innocence  of  youth 

Let  manhood  be  arrayed. 

So,  like  the  grand  magnolia  tree, 
Where  grace  and  beauty  blend; 

In  every  aspect  you  may  be 
The  type  of  Southern  men! 


THE    BABY. 

INSCRIBED  TO   "CLARA   LOUISE,"  MY   FIRST 
GRANDCHILD. 

THOU  precious  one,  that  liest  on  my  knee 
Passive  and  sweet!     Oh,  what  is  life  to  thee, 

So  seemingly  incognizant  of  all 
Around  thee  here?     Thou  charming  mystery, 
Do  any  inklings  of  the  things  that  be 

Upon  thee  fall  ? 

Sweet  germ  of  being!   keenly  dost  thou  hear, 
And  yet  my  words  fall  senseless  on  thy  ear, 

A  mere  refrain 

That  gives  no  thought  to  thee,  my  baby  dear, 
Of  love,  or  hope,  or  anxious  mother-care, 

Of  joy  or  pain. 

Thou  comprehendest  not?     Then  why  that  smile 
Flitting  so  strangely  bright,  my  cherub  child, 

Across  thy  face? 

Do  seraph  voices,  whispering  all  the  while, 
Attend,  thy  vacant  hours  to  beguile 

With  angel  grace? 

Or  do  the  harmonies  from  whence  thou  came 
Breathe  on  thy  new-born  ear  the  sweet  acclaim 

Of  Eden's  bowers? 

Ah,  dear  one!  many  discords  thou  wilt  gain 
By  venturing  upon  this  world  of  pain, 

This  world  of  ours! 

(79) 


8o  LA  YS  FROM  THE  SUNNY  LANDS. 

Linked,  as  thou  art,  half  way  between  the  two, 
By  smiles  and  tears,  thou  hast  both  worlds  in  view. 

A  little  space, 

'Twill  not  be  long,  for  things  both  strange  and  new 
Will  soon  the  image  of  the  fair  and  true 

From  thee  efface. 

E'en  now  thou  openest  wide  thy  lustrous  eyes, 
At  every  sight  and  sound,  in  sweet  surprise, 

Seeming  to  look  away 

Into  the  unknown  past;  but  thou  art  growing  wise 
In  pantomime,  and  soon  will  wear  the  guise 

Of  one  whom  present  things  will  oft  bewray. 

Ah  me,  the  rush  of  new  sensations  is  too  much! 
Thou  sighest,  my  darling!    'Tis  the  first  light  touch 

Of  Sorrow's  trills; 

Oh,  born  to  trouble,  feelest  thou,  then,  so  soon, 
The  jar  of  earth?    And  bearest  thou  the  doom, 

So  early,  of  its  ills? 

Well,  rest  thee  now,  sweet  baby,  in  these  arms, 
In  blest  unconsciousness  of  life's  alarms, 

And  gather  strength 

To  take  in,  one  by  one,  the  fleeting  charms, 
And  meet  with  stronger  nerve  the  many  harms 

Which  come  at  length. 

Rest,  little  stranger!     Though  there's  much  of  woe, 
And  many  thorns  will  in  thy  pathway  grow, 

Even  from  thy  birth; 

Yet,  life  hath  choicest  blessings  to  bestow, 
And  thou,  if  pure  and  true,  much  joy  may  know 

While  on  this  earth. 


THE    BOTANIC    RAMBLE. 

A  REMINISCENCE. 

I. 

A  SOUTHERLY  breeze,  and  a  cloudless  sky;  — 
And  we  sallied  forth,  the  children  and  I; 
The  air  was  so  soft,  and  the  sky  was  so  blue, 
The  young  hearts  so  rapt  with  emotions  new, 
For  'twas  in  the  beautiful  month  of  June, 
And  the  woods  were  fragrant  with  rich  perfume. 

ii. 

Tackle  for  fishing,  and  baskets,  too! 
More  than  one  purpose  we  had  in  view. 
From  school-room  studies  some  maidens  came, 
Seeking,  in  Flora's  wide  domain, 
Subjects  for  thought.     As  I  sat  by  the  brook, 
Watching  a  minnow  that  nibbled  my  hook, 
Little  Pierre,  at  the  end  of  his  line, 
Flourished  a  mud  cat.     "  It  is  mine! "  "  It  is  mine! ' 
The  children  shouted;    and  then,  amain, 
A  deep  hollow  murmur  in  syllables  came, 
'Mine — mine."    In  fearful  dread 
The  little  ones  gathered  around.     I  said, 
In  questioning  accents:    "  Who  are  you?" 
The  answer  came  mockingly  back:    "  You  —  you." 
Again  I  questioned:  "And  shall  we  come?" 
Clear  was  the  soft  response:  "  Come!  —  come!" 
So  we  went  through  the  trackless  woods  unknown 
To  knock  at  the  door  of  the  wood-nymph's  home. 
(81) 


82  LA  YS  FROM  THE  SUNNY  LANDS. 

in. 

Our  little  fat  terrier  ran  on  before 
Shaking  his  silky  black  curls  all  o'er; 
And  the  deep  wood  uttered  a  musical  roar, 
As  if  a  half  dozen  dogs  or  more 
Were  storming  a  fortress  in  the  dell; 
But  when  for  us  the  drawbridge  fell, 
The  children  were  much  surprised  to  find 
That  no  answer  came  to  their  summons  kind; 
For  though  so  garrulous  when  alone  — 
To  callers,  the  "  Lady"  is  "  twt  at  home. " 
Nevertheless,  beside  the  door 
Was  a  "  Golden  Slipper"*  as  bright,  I'm  sure, 
As  the  fairy  shoe  which  the  young  "  Prince"  put 
On  poor  little  "  Cinderella's"  foot. 

IV. 

Climbing  the  flowery  turrets  up, 
The  "  Lady"  we  robbed  of  her  "  Painted  Cup,"f 
And  the  ferns  which  compose  her  braided  hair, 
And  the  "  Bridal  Wreath  "  \  she  was  wont  to  wear. 
Young  "Aspidiums,"  exquisitely  curled, 
Were  peeping  out;   but  the  social  world 
Of  "  Convallarias,"  "  Poligalas"  too, 
"  Uvularias"  bright,  and  "Violas"  blue, 
Had  passed  their  early  pupilage, 
And  now  were  storing  up  fruits  for  age. 

v. 

On  the  rustic  bridge  we  were  bidding  farewell. 
But  the  "  Dryads"  held  us  in  mystic  spell. 
How  happy  we  were!     The  hills  were  blue 


*  Cypepedium  pubescens. 
t  Euchromia  pallens. 
t  Tiarella  cordifolia. 


THE  BOTANIC  RAMBLE.  83 

With  that  hazy,  soft,  enchanting  hue 

Midsummer  gives.     The  tremulous  air, 

The  soothing  hum  of  the  locust's  bore, 

Blent  with  the  smaller,  sweeter  notes 

Of  insects  filling  their  tuneful  throats 

From  honey-cupped  flowers.     Ever  and  anon 

The  starling  shook  his  exquisite  trombone, 

The  red-bird  trilled  his  varied  lay, 

The  woodpecker  whetted  his  scythe  so  gay! 

The  watchman's  whistle  the  king-bird  blew, 

And  the  mocking-bird  rendered  them  all  anew. 


Sauntering  on,  in  this  happy  mood, 

We  entered  a  long,  low,  level  wood, 

Where  the  trees  stood  up,  distinct  and  tall, 

Shedding  sweet  glimpses  of  sky  on  all 

The  islets  and  geometric  forms 

Which  the  meandering  stream  had  worn. 

Mosaiced  in  patterns  from  Nature  learned, 

Were  "  Hepaticae,"  mosses,  and  feathery  ferns. 

Tall  pines,  whose  roots  were  washed  by  the  stream, 

Wore  a  carpet  of  wreaths  of  the  "  Ivy"  green. 

Mitchella's  lowly  twin  velvety  flower 

And  its  scarlet  berries,  in  their  leafy  bower, 

Clustered  like  gems.     Our  "  Fernery,"  dear. 

We  'plenished  with  delicate  traceries  here; 

Content,  in  our  homeward  path,  to  scan 

How  nature  a  transcript  is  of  man. 

VII. 

Viburnums"  had  dropt  their  petals  fair, 
As  faded  and  useless  for  future  wear, 
And  now,  in  earnest,  had  set  about 
Bringing  their  horde  of  capsules  out. 


84  LAYS  FROM  THE  SUNNY  LANDS, 

"  Andromeda's"  leathery  bells  were  few. 
But  round  an  "^tsculus  glabra  "  flew 
A  thousand  tiny,  gauzy  things. 
And  humming-birds,  with  their  rainbow  wings, 
Twirling  and  singing  in  insane  glee, — 
Like  many  Bacchanals  we  see, — 
Inserting  their  bills  in  the  nectared  horns 
Of  the  splendid  flower  which  this  tree  adorns. 

VIII. 

Over  the  hill,  as  we  drew  near  home. 
The  setting  sun  in  its  glory  shone. 
Seemingly  borne  on  its  last  red  beam 
Came  a  strain  as  sweet  as  a  Moslem's  dream; 
'Twas  a  chorus  of  youthful  voices,  nigh, 
Enjoying  their  work  'neath  the  open  sky. 
The  jubilant  notes  of  "  Bonny  Eloise  " 
Came  trippingly  back  on  the  evening  breeze. 
Entranced  we  stood,  in  doubt  to  ken 
Which  was  the  sweeter,    the  song,    or  then, 
Good  "  Mother  Harmonia,"  deliciously  coy, 
Repeating  the  sound  of  her  children's  joy! 


THE    VILLAGE    CHURCH    BELL. 

WRITTEN   UNDER  DEEP  AFFLICTION. 

SLOWLY  and  dreamily  it  comes, 

Through  the  dim  openings  of  the  forest  aisles; 
Now  hushed,  now  swelling  up  in  freshened  tones, 

Peal  upon  peal  resounding  through  the  wilds, 
Still  ringing  soft  and  clear  above  the  sound 
Of  sad  winds,  sobbing  in  the  dark  pines  round. 

So  musically  sweet!  —  yet,  to  my  heart 

It  seems, —  in  concert  with  the  wood's  low  sigh, — 
To  breathe  that  sorrow  which  his  mortal  part 

Wrung  from  the  "  Friend  of  Sinners  "  in  the  cry,- 
Alas!    how  thrills  mine  own  in  sympathy, — 
My  God!  my  God!  hast  thou  forsaken  me?  " 

The  only  link  that  bound  me  to  the  past, 

The  only  sound  which  spoke  to  me  of  heaven. 
And  now  'tis  gone!  I  knew  it  could  not  last, 

That  dream  of  earthly  sweetness  which  had  risen 
Time 's  touch  is  real.     Here,  without  relief, 
Benumbed  I  sit, —  alone,  with  my  great  grief ! 

How  deep  the  gloom!     This  leaden  silence  falls 

Incubus-like,  upon  my  heavier  soul, 
Curdling  the  quivering  pulse,  which  over  all 

The  strings  of  joy  once  swept  without  control. 
The  harp  that  once  held  rapture  in  its  flow 
Lies  crusJicd,  'neath  Fate  s  inexorable  blow. 

(85) 


86  LA  YS  FROM  THE  SUNATY  LANDS. 

Yet,  blessed  chime!    thy  prophet  tones  inspire 

Thoughts  of  that  "  better  land  "  where  grief  is  hushed, 

And  of  that  tree  which  heals  with  sweet'ning  power 
The  bitter  streams  which  from  our  hearts  have  gushed. 

Then  trill  those  symphonies;  —  though  not  for  me, 

For  others  wake  your  Gospel  minstrelsy! 

Tell  of  a  Saviour's  love,  and  let  the  tale, 

So  true  and  wonderful,  arrest  the  feet 
Of  many,  wandering  far  from  Wisdom's  pale. 

Who  here  shall  come,  their  "  Sacrifice"  to  greet. 
Thus  to  the  woes  of  earth  shall  peace  be  given, 
And  all  our  weary  thoughts  find  rest  in  heaven. 
EDGEFIELD,  SOUTH  CAROLINA,  1862. 


CONSIDER   THE   LILIES. 

A  PARAPHRASE.—  Matt.  vi.  28-30. 

'  CONSIDER  the  lilies,"  the  Saviour  said, 

As  on  the  mount,  near  Genesaret, 
He  looked  on  the  autumn  fields,  o'erspread 
With  bright  "  Amaryllis  luted,"  yet, — 

'  Consider"  them,  not  as  a  whole;  take  one, 

Examine  its  petals;  softer  far 
Than  the  softest  velvet  by  artists  spun, 
And  richer  than  drops  of  amber  are! 

The  splendid  versatile  authors  see 

On  their  slender  filaments,  ready  to  burst 

And  scatter  their  treasure  wide  and  free 
In  golden  farinaceous  dust, — 

See  the  triple-crowned  style,  which,  in  its  turn, 
Conveys  the  life-giving  pollen  down 

To  the  nascent  seed  in  the  three-valved'germ 
In  the  lowest  sheath  of  the  calyx  found. 

'  Consider  the  lilies! "     Look  closer  yet: 

A  secluded  nectariferous  gland 
In  the  base  of  each  bright  claw  is  set, 

Filled  with  perfume  from  your  Father's  hand1 

The  lilies!     They  neither  toil  nor  spin, 
Yet  are  they  clothed  in  raiment  free; 

(87) 


88  LA  YS  FROM  THE  SUNNY  LANDS. 

And  fairer  than  all  that  gold  could  win 
For  Solomon's  glorious  majesty! 

If  the  grass  of  the  field,  which  dies  so  soon, 
If  a  spire  of  moss  that  is  scarcely  seen 

And  lies  in  the  highway's  dust  at  noon, 
Wear  a  Divine  impress  within, — 

Much  more  for  you,  oh,  faithless  one! 

Whose  mission  of  soul  must  last  for  aye, 
For  whom  the  Father  gave  his  Son, 

Shall  he  his  wisdom  and  care  display. 

This  beautiful  sermon  on  trust,  we  find, 
Is  just  as  potent  for  you  and  me, 

And  for  all  who  to  doubt  his  love  incline, 
As  when  spoken  first  in  sweet  Galilee' 

How  happy,  if,  when  our  faith  is  lost, 
We  could  trace  his  love  in  each  flower  we  see, 

And  say:     "  He  feedeth  the  tiny  moss, 
And  surely,  he  will  remember  me!  " 


JACOB   AT    THE   WELL. 

SOME  things  there  are  in  heaven's  wondrous  plan 
Which  fill  us  with  sublime  delight, —  and  then 
With  silent  awe,  when  Sovereign  Love  unfolds 
His  tender  purposes  for  sinful  man. 

When  Jacob,  leaning  on  his  pilgrim's  staff, 
Beside  the  ancient  well  in  Haran  stood, — 

Pondering  his  deep  regret, — 
The  same,  and  yet,  another  man  he  was! 
That  Love  Divine  which  had  rebuked  his  course, 
Had,  in  its  wise  omniscience,  given  him  peace. 

But  then,  alas! 

The  serpents  which  had  so  beset  his  path, — 
They  stung  him  sorely  yet! 
Wrapt  in  a  sombre  spell, — 
Musing, —  he  saw  again  his  mother's  tent, 
And  all  the  years  of  luxury  and  ease 
Which  forfeit  were  by  his  own  selfish  act. 
In  panoramic  view,  most  sadly  sweet, 
Rose  Canaan's  lovely  vales  and  sunny  hills; 
But  like  an  ogre  there, 

Eating  into  his  heart,  was  Esau's  famished  mien, 
And  the  vile  trade, —  so  unfraternal! 
With  the  pottage  red.      Unbidden  came 
His  artful  schemings,  and  his  mother's  guile, 
Seeking  by  treachery  to  invest  with  power 
Her  favorite  child:    The  parleyings, — 
The  dark  deceit, —  the  flight, — 
The  old  blind  father's  tears  were  wearing  still 
Upon  his  heart,  as  water  wears  the  stone. 

(89) 


go  LA  YS  FROM  THE  SUNNY  LANDS. 

The  dismal  lodging  in  a  place  so  drear, 
Shunning  the  paths  to  the  pursuer  known, 
Behind  him  lowered  dark  a  life-long  dread, 
While  doubt  and  danger  loomed  up  far  ahead. 
Then  came  the  ladder,  touching  earth  and  heaven, 
And  angels  going  up  and  coming  down, 
Silently  ministering  of  heaven's  lore 
To  this  poor  stricken  one! 

The  wonder  grew 
Into  a  span  of  hope,  so  beautiful! 
It  stirred  the  bosom  of  the  exiled  man, 
Flying  from  just  revenge,  and  under  ban 
Of  home  and  friends, —  such  pitying  love  to  see, — 
A  mystery,  born  in  the  ages  old, 
That  God,  in  his  electing  love,  should  choose 
One  who  in  his  inherent  right  no  merit  had, 
One  who  to  truth  had  given  so  little  heed, 
And  who  the  evil  arts  of  Nature  used 
To  sate  his  earthly  greed! 
It  stirred  his  bosom  with  a  sense  of  wrong, 

And  ill  desert, — 

To  that  contrition  which  a  rebel  feels 
When  conscious  guilt  to  sovereign  mercy  yields, 
And  leaves  the  obdurate  heart  attuned  to  praise. 

Now  he  could  say  with  joy: 

"  Surely,  none  other  than  the  house  of  God  this  is 
And  this  the  gate  of  heaven!" 

Never  before  to  Jacob's  worldly  sense 

Had  this  bright  gate  appeared; 

Although  to  win  his  wayward  sons  to  heaven 

The  poor  old  Patriarch  tried; 

And  with  this  light  there  came  a  clearer  view 

Of  all  the  Abra'amic  covenant  implied, 

Learned  at  his  grandsire's  knee, 


JACOB  AT  THE   WELL.  91 

But  feebly  understood  and  carnally 
Construed  to  suit  his  avarice  and  pride. 

Now  too  late 

He  saw  his  weakness  and  its  forfeiture: 
An  outcast  from  his  home  and  heritage, 
And  doomed  a  bitter  conflict  to  endure, 
Long  years  of  toil  and  weary  vassalage! 

Humbled,  but  wiser  now, 
His  heart  was  ready  to  record  that  vow 
In  covenant  with  his  great  Almighty  Friend, 
Who,  when  by  all  he  had  forsaken  been, 
Had  "  taken  him  up"  with  promises  Divine. 

Then  as  he  journeyed  on 

His  step  grew  lighter,  as  his  faith  grew  strong; 
But  earthlier  feelings,  with  the  ties  of  home, 
Still  to  his  spirit  clung.     He  thought  of  all 
His  mother's  doting  love, — 

So  self-forgetting, — 
And  his  heart  was  wrung 
With  anguish  for  that  poor  mistaken  one, 
Now  'reft  of  both  her  sons,  the  sequence  sad 
Of  weak  indulgence  in  parental  love! 


BESIDE    THE    SYRIAN   WELL. 

FOOT-SORE  and  thirsty,  as  he  took  his  stand, 
A  stranger  in  his  mother's  native  land! 
That  utter  helplessness  the  cynic  feels, 

Alone  in  crowds, 

Came  o'er  his  soul;  but  with  a  sudden  bound 
His  pulses  leap  exultingly! 
When  to  his  questioning  the  shepherds  tell: 
1  Yes,  this  is  Laban's  well, 
And  lo!  his  daughter  cometh  with  the  sheep!  " 

O'er  Jacob's  heart 

Its  sweet  illusions  Love  had  never  thrown. 
Ishmael's  young  daughters  and  the  maids  of  Heth 
Might  try  in  vain  the  Hebrew  prince  to  snare; 
Rebecca's  counsels,  and  the  pride  of  self 
Had  kept  him  heart-whole  though  the  maids  were  fair. 

Now  love  and  duty  proved 
All  the  long  pent-up  wishes  in  his  breast 
Could  in  delicious  rapture  be  exprest! 

With  virgin  mood,  and  brightly  braided  hair, 
With  sweet  simplicity  and  winning  grace, 
And  conscious  beauty  shining  in  her  face, 
This  youthful  shepherdess  a  conqueror  came! 

To  Jacob's  'wildered  brain, 

O'erwhelmed  with  wonder  and  delight  and  shame. 
She  mirrored  all  the  visions  he  had  kept 
Of  love  and  home;  and  so  the  marvel  came 
That  this  coincidence  of  time  and  place 
Awakened  all  the  feelings  which  had  slept 

Incipiently, — 

(92) 


BESIDE  THE  SYRIAN  WELL.  93 

And  as  the  beauteous  damsel  he  embraced, — 
While  these  conflicting  thoughts  his  bosom  swept, — 
He  lifted  up  his  manly  voice  and  wept ! 

Some  one  has  said: 

'  He  who  would  wish  a  fond  full  heart  to  gain 
Must  seek  it  when  'tis  sore,  allay  its  pain 
With  love  by  pity  prest, — 'tis  all  his  own." 

This,  Rachel's  pity  and  her  beauty  did 
For  the  poor  stricken  fugitive,  and  wove 
A  witching  sorcery,  so  deeply  wove 
That  twice  seven  years  of  savage  toil  but  proved 
A  scanty  measure  for  his  boundless  love. 


TALLULAH. 

i. 
THE  traveler,  as  he  wends  his  eager  way 

Toward  Nature's  temple,  great  Niagara, 
Hears  from  afar  its  thundering  echoes  play  — 

Hoarse-sounding,  in  their  elemental  war. 
And  thus  his  soul  is  girded  up  to  weigh 
The  power,  which,  unforeseen,  would  on    his  spirits 

prey, 

Bearing  them  down  with  an  excess  of  awe; 
But  nerves  him,  bye  and  bye,  for  the  sublime 
"  Te  Deum  "  on  this  grand  old  harp  of  time! 

II. 
Not  so  where  Southern  breezes  blow, — amid 

The  Unacaya  Mountains;  there. 
Within  a  gorgeous  forest,  deeply  hid, 

Where  no  monitions  of  the  stream  appear, 
Terrora*  winds  in  silent  beauty,  rid 
Of  all  earth's  garish  sounds.     And  never  did 

A  scene  more  strangely  fair 

Burst  on  the  view, —  not  e'en  from  Alpine  height 
Or  the  deep  gorges  which  the  eye  delight, — 

in. 
Or  shock  with  grandeur,  on  the  lofty  range 

Of  Himalayan  glaciers,  cleft  apart 
By  Nature's  hammer-men.     With  feelings  strange. 

We  view  this  work  of  superhuman  art, 


*  "Terrora,"  the  Indian  name  for  "terrible. 
(94) 


TALLULAH.  95 

Glossed  by  six  thousand  years,  without  a  change 
Its  adamantine  pillars  to  derange. 

How  does  the  thought  appall  the  human  heart! 
Standing  upon  a  little  span  of  earth, 
We  look  aghast,  and  wonder  at  thy  birth. 

iv.  • 
Terrible  stream!     Not  terrible  art  thou, 

Save  in  the  breadth  and  depth  which  hems  thee  in 
Thy  rocky  palaces,  where  spruce-firs  bow 

Their  graceful  branches,  softly  penciling 
Green  shadows  on  the  purple  rocks  and  o'er 
The  golden  mosses,  with  their  crimson  spores, 

A  canopy  of  fadeless  beauty  throw. 
Down,  down,  a  thousand  feet,  thou  seem'st  asleep, 
Voiceless  Terrora,  in  thy  home  so  deep! 

v. 
Silent  and  shadowy,  as  the  forms  that  flit 

Over  the  juggler's  mirror,  thou  dost  seem 
Voluptuousness  enshrined,  or,  better  yet, 

The  sweet  illusion  of  a  poet's  dream. 
Beneath   our   feet  a  fairy  isle,  a  "Liliputian"  forest 

gem  is  set 
Within  thy  bright  reflections.     There  are  met 

The  arching  bough  and  silvery  leaf  of  green, 
While  pensile  wreaths  and  mossy  rings  in  flocks 
Climb  up,  and  tapestry  the  craggy  rocks. 

VI. 

Nature  reposes;   but  like  the  "  Glen-Almain,"  where 

Ossian  sleeps, 

"  It  is  not  quiet —  is  not  ease," 

That  reaches  up  from  the  far  sleepy  depths,  and  keeps 
In  the  vast  solitude  its  charmed  levees, 


96  LA  YS  FROM  THE  SUNNY  LANDS. 

With  wonder,  and  that  sense  which  only  weeps 
When  filled  to  overflowing  from  the  deeps 
Of  mystery  and  beauty.     Tokens,  these, 
That  Nature  brings  to  our  remorseful  eyes, — 
The  dower  of  sadness  gained  in  paradise. 

VII. 

Away,  where  yonder  rocky  turrets  rise, — 
The  long-continuous  chasm  opening  free, — 

Looming  up  grandly  'gainst  the  distant  skies 
Losing  themselves  in  great  immensity! 

We  long  to  follow  on,  as  flies 

The  eagle  to  the  sun;  but  vainly  tries 
Our  earthly  thought  to  grasp  eternity! 

Like  that  same  eagle  struggling  in  his  moil, 

We  flap  a  broken  wing  within  our  mortal  coil! 

VIII. 

"To  sit  on  rocks,  to  muse  o'er  flood  and  fell," 

In  solitude,  is  all  the  cynics  boast; 
But  surely,  if  the  friends  we  love  so  well 

Are  dear  at  any  time,  we  love  them  most 
When  silence  spreads  o'er  river,  rock,  and  dell, 
Soft  draperies,  with  not  a  sound  to  tell 

Of  human  sympathies,  and  all  the  host 
Of  weird  emotions,  pent  up  in  the  soul  — 
Pain,  with  excess  of  pleasure,  uncontrolled. 

IX. 

Mysterious  silence!    Who  shall  dare  to  look 

Into  thy  sacred  oracle?     As  yet 
Thou  hast  within  thy  hand  a  sealed  book, 

Coeval  with  eternity.     The  chiming  cascade  whets 
Its  own  eulogium.     The  babbling  brook 
Tells  its  own  tale.     The  sea,  in  every  nook, 


TALLULAH.  97 

Murmurs  in  self-applause,  or  moaning  frets. 
Thou  Goddess!   with  thy  finger  on  thy  lip, 
Canst  make  the  blood  within  our  vitals  creep! 

x. 
Give  me,   then,   to  share  this  weight  of  beauty,  such 

a  band 
Of   friends;    not   thoughtless,    gay,    nor    frivolously 

dull; 
Not  stupidly  phlegmatic;  not  the  bland 

But  earnest  worshipper  of  Nature,  full 
Of  mild  enthusiasm,  formed  to  scan 
The  slightest  shades  of  coloring, —  the  minute  man, 

Contemplative,  to  whom  there's  nothing  null 
In  all  God's  works;  who  sees  the  hand 
Of  Wisdom  tracing  out  the  wondrous  plan. 

XI. 

With  such  I'd  love  to  wander  on  for  days, 

Up  the  terrific  cliff-side,  seeking  out, 
As  in  a  book  of  prints,  each  glowing  page, 

Or  drinking  "  Linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out." 
With  such  I  once  essayed  the  shelving  edge 
Of  the  rude  precipice,  and  stumbling  down  the  ledge, 

Seated  us,  sadly  wearied,  on  a  rock, 
The  blue  sky  looking  down,  our  eyes  to  greet, 
The  fair  Tallulah  tossing  at  our  feet. 

XII. 

Hemmed  in  those  granite  walls,  'twas  sweet  to  prove 

A  perfect  isolation  from  the  ills 
That  make  us  sorrow  in  the  world  above. 

But  by  the  boulders  stopped  against  our  wills  — 
How  longed  I  for  a  magic  barque,  to  move 


98  LA  YS  FROM  THE  SUNNY  LANDS. 

Beneath  the  shadows  of  the  emerald  grove, 

Under  a  charmed  spell  of  safety,  still, 
And  ever  gliding  on  the  beauteous  stream, 
Drink  to  my  fill  of  Pleasure's  'witching  dream! 

XIII. 

With  such  a  band  of  friends  I  fain  would  stand 

Upon  the  rocky  "  pulpit"  jutting  o'er 
The  yawning  gulf.     A  chasm  on  each  hand, 

Inspiring  terror  seldom  felt  before. 
But  never  yet  did  poet's  dream  expand 
In  Tuscan  valleys,  or  sweet  "  Tempe's"  land, 

A  scene  more  lovely  than  the  vale  below; 
Here,  'neath  the  fairy  trees,  three  cascades  peep, 
Foaming  and  sparkling  and  yet  fast  asleep, — 

XIV. 

As  in  a  magic  mirror;  for  no  sound 

Comes  floating  on  the  balmy  air,  so  high, 

Nor  breaks  the  illusion  of  the  depths  profound, 
Which  all  in  panoramic  beauty  lie. 

Enchanting  softness  settles  all  around, 

And  a  blue  hazy  veil  is  richly  thrown 

Over  the  creeping  plants  and  rocks  of  amber  dye, 

While  right  and  left  the  ragged  ramparts  rise, 

Painting  their  gorgeous  tints  against  the  azure  skies. 

xv. 
A  little  farther  on, —  we  reach  the  place 

Where  the  crags  bolder  rise,  and  less  inclined; 
And  near  the  top  an  aperture  we  trace, 

In  which  the  eagle  made  her  nest  "  Lang  Syne." 
Here,  one,  who  proved  most  daring  of  his  race, 
Ventured  the  frightful  quarry's  mouth  to  face, 


TALLULAH.  99 

All  slippery  with  the  tassels  of  the  pine. 
He  who  at  last,  to  ruin  Fame's  fleeting  breath, 
In  the  "  Alamo  "  met  a  cruel  death. 

XVI. 

Over  the  mountain  ledge,  press  on,  and  lo! 

The  rich  low  bass  tones  of  an  organ  hymn, 
Welling  up  sweetly  from  the  vale  below, 

Through  the  high  trees  the  waters  glistening. 
Descend  we  now,  a  hundred  feet  or  more, 
Where  the  green  waters  from  their  chalice  pour 

In  one  delicious  bound  against  the  rim 
Of  the  huge  rock,  and  fall, —  a  graceful  shower 
Of  diamond  drops,  into  their  muffled  bower! 

XVII. 

Guarded  within  this  fastness  from  the  world, 
Unique  in  beauty,  simple,  pure,  and  grand, 

Convulsion's  fragments  all  around  thee  hurled, 
How  dost  thou  mock  the  arrogance  of  man? 

Pride  cannot  solve  the  problem  here  so  old; 

Ambition  cannot  grasp  a  gulf  so  bold, 
Nor  Canute-like  its  majesty  command. 

And  man,  whate'er  he  is  in  "  court,  camp,  grove," 

The  pigmy  of  creation  here  must  move. 


ALG^E. 

A   FRAGMENT. 

Is  THERE  no  algae,  except  in  the  sea? 

Yes,  dear,  in  all  quiet  waters  there  be 

Germs  floating,  invisible,  through  the  air, 

Awaiting  moisture  and  rest.     Like  hair, 

Or  sprouting  in  feathery  flakes,  they  cling 

To  rocks  that  are  washed  by  a  brook  or  a  spring. 

A  stone  that  is  placed  in  an  eddying  stream 

Becomes  slippery  with  this  algae  green. 

On  the  damp  garden  path  where  the  sun  seldom  shines, 

On  the  walls  of  a  house  that  is  mouldy  with  time, 

Is  a  delicate  sod,  formed  of  myriad  germs, — 

Incipient  plants, —  with  a  texture  firm. 

All  nature  these  infinite  spores  pervade. 

They  are  found  in  old  fissures  in  cheeses  made, 

Rising  from  corks  in  the  wine-cellar's  stand; 

In  graceful  festoons  from  the  ceiling  they  hang; 

The  mouldiness  seen  on  a  worthless  old  shoe 

Is  a  forest  of  algae,  curious  to  view! 

Sucked  up  in  water-spouts,  carried  by  winds, 

The  unique  phenomenon,  red  snow,  we  find 

In  a  cloud  of  these  spores  from  the  Arctic  fields, 

Which  this  species  of  "  musci "  so  lavishly  yields. 

On  mountain  crags,  or  on  the  stones  of  the  brook. 

There  is  often  a  tracery  of  purplish  look; 

Or  rose-colored  filaments  floating,  we  see, 

In  the  beautiful  order,  "  convervoidae." 

Of  what  use,  then,  are  these  germs  to  man? 
Ask  of  what  use  is  the  fruitful  rain, 
(100) 


ALGM. 

Which  fills  the  dried-up  streams,  in  time 
To  soften  with  mists  an  arid  clime. 
As  mist  to  the  parched  atmosphere, 
This  algae  is  to  all  being  here. 
Its  mission  all  Nature 's  waste  restores; 
Beauty  in  barrenness  from  it  flows; 
Fertility  from  desolation  springs, 
As  life  to  the  sterile  rock  it  brings! 
Wherever  there's  dampness,  on  roof  or  rock, 
These  tiny  green  films  are  seen  to  flock.  / 
The  little  rootlets  dig  deeply  down, 
Where  moisture,  held  by  their  fronds,  is  found. 
When  the  stems  decay,  the  debris  forms  soil; 
And  the  softened  rock,  in  its  constant  toil, 
Triturates  into  a  fertile  field; 

And  the  barren  stones,  and  the  rough  earth  yield 
'  To  starred  divisions  of  rubied  bloom, 
To  fringes  of  amber  and  silver, "--soon 
To  a  mantle  of  beauty  and  grace,  so  bright 
That  the  greenness  of  earth  is  a  long  delight! 

But  this  is  not  all.     At  the  roots  of  trees, 
In  the  glens,  among  ferns,  and  things  like  these, 
The  sheaths  and  calyptras  collect  the  rain, 
And  feed  it  out  to  the  earth  again. 
When  more  they  cannot  hold,  the  drops 
Trickle  in  rivulets,  forming  brooks; 
And  thus,  by  the  moss-beds  in  mountains  spread, 
Our  glorious  rivers  and  lakes  are  fed. 
;  How  beautiful! "  you  are  apt  to  say, 
1  The  part  which  those  tiny  mosses  play!" 
But  there's  a  more  touching,  tenderer  view; 
For  the  mosses  put  on  their  greenest  hue 
When  the  trees  are  drest  in  their  livery  gray, 
And  summer  and  flowers  have  passed  away. 


102  LA  YS  FROM  7V/£  SUNNY  LANDS. 

Unlike  the  heartless  summei  friend, 
They  to  adversity  courage  lend, 
And  over  the  wrecks  and  ruins  of  time, 
A  green  loving  wreath  of  charity  twine. 
The  woods  and  the  blossoms  have  done  their  part; 
But  the  "slow-fingered"  mosses,  with  constant  heart, 
Over  the  head-stones,  watch  and  wave 
"  Flowers  for  the  bride's  chamber, —  moss  for  the  grave." 


SCENE    ON    THE    HUDSON. 

ENGRAVING    IN   AN   ALBUM. 

BEAUTIFUL  Hudson!    Many  speak  of  thee, 

As  boldly  on  thou  rushest  to  the  sea 

From  out  thy  mountain  home,  where  proudly  rise 

Thy  purple  rocks  and  rose  bays  to  the  skies. 

Let  oHiers  praise  thee;    for  the  sunset  gleam, 

Settling  upon  thy  waters,  wakes  a  dream 

From  the  deep  shade  of  that  embattled  hill, 

So  sad  and  mournful  that  my  heart  is  still 

And  mute  of  eulogy.     It  speaks  of  one, 

Who,  in  the  radiance  of  his  life's  bright  morn, 

Looked  on  thee  with  exulting  pride,  though  far 

His  home  was  sheltered  'neath  a  Southern  star; 

And  found  amid  thy  beauties  joys  as  true 

As  ever  youth  and  generous  manhood  knew. 

How  like  it  seems,  as  in  those  days  when  he 

Heard  the  sweet  music  of  the  "  Reveille," 

Or  bending  o'er  thy  waters  caught  the  sound 

Where  boatman's  whistle  broke  the  echoes  round. 

The  little  sails  he  loved  so  well  are  there, 

Filled  with  the  spiced  breath  of  the  mountain  air, 

And  lie  reflected  on  the  glassy  tide, 

Or  else  exulting  o'er  the  waters  ride. 

There  are  the  friends  his  heart  was  formed  to  prize, 

Sketching,  as  he  would  sketch,  the  rocks  and  skies. 

But  when  I  ask  for  him  whose  bounding  heart 

Bore  in  these  pleasures  such  a  rapturous  part, 

The  mountains  answer  in  their  robes  of  green: 

(103) 


104  LA  YS  FROM  THE  SUNATY  LANDS. 

"  An  end  of  all  perfection  we  have  seen!" 
Sweet  Hudson !  though  responsive  to  thy  praise, 
I  may  not  speak  as  erst  in  happier  days; 
And  though,  alas!  with  patriot  pride,  no  more 
Can  I  look  on  thee,  as  I've  looked  before; 
Yet,  richly  art  thou  fraught  with  thoughts  of  him 
Who  called  me  "sister,"  and  though  faint  and  dim 
The  mem'ries  thou  dost  bring;  still,  as  they  come 
Mingling  with  all  the  sorrows  I  have  known 
Through  the  long  lapse  of  years, —  the  best  relief 
This  scene  affords  me,  is  the  joy  of  grief ! 


WASHINGTON    IRVING. 

THOU  master  of  a  spirit-stirring  spell, 

Waking  the  thoughts  to  either  grief  or  glee, 

Whether  of  joy  or  woe  thy  numbers  tell; 
They  breathe  a  strain  of  noblest  minstrelsy! 

'Tis  thine  to  prove  the  sovereignty  of  mind, 

Based  on  the  purity  of  feelings  high, 
To  show  how  man  may  mingle  with  his  kind, 

And  only  be  a  profiler  thereby. 

Thy  morning  dreams  were  speedily  fulfilled; 

Thou  didst  stand  wondering  on  a  foreign  shore, 
But  foreign  lands,  nor  foreign  arts,  were  skilled 

To  spoil  a  mind  so  pure  and  bright  before. 

It  is  a  glorious  privilege  to  be 

Endowed  with  feelings  and  a  gift  like  thine, 
Whose  bright  reflections  turn  to  poetry 

All  thoughts  and  things,  whichever  way  they  shine. 

Old  England's  rural  haunts  and  honest  hearts, 
Grenada's  rosy  founts  and  marble  halls, 

The  Dutchman's  legends,  and  the  Spaniard's  arts, 
Are  bathed  in  light  which  from  thy  genius  falls. 

Who  would  not  be  a  traveler  with  thee, 

Wrapt  in  so  soft  a  visionary  shroud 
Of  beauty,  like  some  golden  hues,  we  see, 

Shrined  in  the  halo  of  a  sunset  cloud? 

(105) 


io6  LA  YS  FROM  THE  SUNNY  LANDS. 

Of  good  and  beautiful  the  world  owes  much 
To  thy  exalted  mind  and  perfect  taste; 

And  yet  it  knows  not  which  has  mostly  touched, 
Thy  gentle  goodness,  or  poetic  grace. 

Surely  life  is  blest  to  thee!   thus  sweetly  bound 
In  bright  imagination's  golden  zone. 

It  must  be  joy,  to  know  that  naught  is  found 
In  all  thy  works  which  thou  ivonldst  blush  to  own. 


OUT    OF    THE    DEPTHS. 


On  hearing  a  sermon  from  the  words :    "  The  heart  knoweth  its- 
own  bitterness." 

OH,  PITYING  One!  my  wearied  heart  sinks  down 

In  voiceless  agony  beneath  thy  feet. 
In  all  the  world  no  solace  can  be  found 

To  make  my  inward  anguish  incomplete. 

In  vain  my  tongue  would  try,  in  melting  tones, 

To  touch  a  chord  in  unison  with  woe; 
All  echoless,  and  sepulchred  in  groans, 

The  secret  is  unfathomed  as  before. 

Tears  coursing  down  my  cheek  may  witness  seem 
Of  grief  too  deep  for  words;  but  overflow, 

As  well  it  may,  no  unscathed  heart  can  know 
How  deep  and  dark  the  gulf  still  lies  below. 

The  sighs  that  heave  and  rend  my  tortured  breast, 
Won  from  the  smould'ring  fires  pent  within, 

But  futile  breathings  are  of  that  sad  quest 
Made  for  deliverance  from  grief  and  sin. 

Nature  may  fail,  the  over-burdened  heart 
Falter  and  stop  beneath  the  heavy  strain; 

But  life  flows  back,  intent  to  do  its  part 
In  keeping  up  the  ministry  of  pain. 

My  grief!    My  grief!    The  world,  in  busy  greed» 
Careless  and  selfish,  rushes  madly  by; 

(107) 


io8          LA  YS  FROM  THE  SUNNY  LANDS. 

No  time  it  has  to  give  the  way-worn  heed, 
And  only  to  the  gladsome  makes  reply. 

My  bosom  friend, — one  I  had  fondly  tried, 
Essays  with  smiles  to  charm  away  my  care; 

No  love,  nor  counterfeits,  can  set  aside 
The  trouble  which  another  may  not  share. 

Oh,  guilt  may  hide,  and  pride  may  stifle  in 
The  sorrows  that  would  only  meet  disdain. 

The  sorest  grief  of  all  that's  born  of  sin 
Is  that  of  which  there's  nothing  to  complain. 


LINES 

OCCASIONED  BY  A  FROST  IN  APRIL. 

COLD,  cold,  my  flowers! 
The  chill  blast  rudely  sweeps  your  quivering  stems, - 

Those  balmy  hours, 
Whose  breath  so  warmly  wooed  your  opening  gems. 

Have  fled  the  bowers, — 
And  now  its  scythe  to  the  destroyer  lends. 

Had  ye  not  listened  to  that  siren  tongue,. 
Nor  spread  your  buds  in  such  incautious  haste,, 

Ye  might,  ere  long, 
Have  looked  securely  in  the  Sunbeam's  face, 

And  felt  no  wrong 
Whilst  gently  opening  in  its  warm  embrace. 

But,  fair  things!  thus, 
In  native  inexperience,  your  race 

Is  like  to  us. 
We  rashly  give  each  glittering  smile  a  place, 

And  fondly  nurse 
The  hopes  which  on  their  constancy  we  base, 

Till  sorrows  burst; 

And  then  we  find  our  hearts  have  gone  to  waste! 
(109) 


SONG. 

TRAVELERS  in  a  world  of  sorrow, 
Ye  who  thoughtless  rove  along, 

Dreaming  that  each  happier  morrow 
Will  be  fraught  with  love  and  song, 

Let  not  hopes  of  bliss  betray  you ; 

Let  not  gleams  of  joy  deceive! 

Even  yet  while  life  is  sweetest, 
Ye  shall  find  those  joys  decay; 

And  the  brightest,  still  the  fleetest, 
Like  a  cloud,  shall  fade  away. 

Trust  not  Hope's  alluring  story;  — 

Pleasure  smiles  but  to  betray! 

If  the  coldest  bosom  never 

Found  its  wishes  truly  blest, 
Why  should  hearts  of  feeling  ever 

Think  to  find  a  moment's  rest? 
Tenderest  thoughts  are  soonest  grieved; 
Warmest  hopes  are  first  betrayed! 

But  to  all,  life's  troubled  ocean 

Must  in  bitter  surges  heave; 
And,  amid  its  wild  commotion, 

Ye  shall  many  woes  receive. 
Think  not,  though  your  barque  sail  lightly, 
Ye  shall  thus  out-ride  the  breeze! 

Travelers  through  a  world  of  sorrow, 
Roving  thoughtlessly  along, 

(no) 


SONG. 

Weave  not  for  the  coming  morrow 

Your  bright  dreams  of  love  and  song; 
From  delusive  follies  turning, 
Seek  the  joys  that  ne'er  deceive. 


OUR   BOY    HEROES. 

Mournful  as  the  songs  of  Ossian, 
Will  be  "  tales  of  other  days," 

When  our  Southern  Muse  rehearses, 
In  her  wild  and  tender  lays, 

All  the  actions,  and  the  praise 

Which  this  bitter  strife  displays. 

Mournful  will  it  be,  yet  lovely, 

Softened  in  its  keen  regret, 
When  her  faithful  harp  recalleth 

The  heroic  charges  made, 
And  the  oaths,  so  nobly  kept 
By  her  martyr  sons,  who  slept, — 

Some  in  crowded  cemeteries, 

Some  in  nameless  trenches  thrown, 

Some  amid  the  lonely  forests, 
On  our  shadowy  hills,  alone; 

Or  in  stranger  soil, —  unknown, 

Blanketed,  without  a  stone! 

Another  yet!  and  yet  another  — 

Now  the  "  war-path  "  knows  no  moreT 

Are  they  sleeping  in  their  glory, 
And  shall  not  the  paeans  flow 

Through  the  ages,  with  the  story, 

How  they  grandly  met  the  foe? 

They  from  homes  of  ease  and  pleasure,. 
From  the  halls  of  learning,  flew, 

(112) 


OUR  BOY  HEROES.  1 1 3 

To  embrace  disease  and  danger; 

And  with  loyal  hearts  and  true, — 
To  the  soldier's  life,  a  stranger, 

Did  the  soldier's  fight  renew. 

Tender  babes,  in  luxury  nurtured, 

Boldly  faced  the  cannon's  roar, 
Boldly  met  the  sabre  charges; 

And  the  "red  cross  banner"  bore 
Through  the  serried  ranks  of  gore 
Till  they  fell, —  to  rise  no  more. 

They,   the  young,  the  brave,  the  lovely, 

Precious  jewels,  household  pets, 
Hope  of  our  dishonored  land. 
"Thick  as  leaves  in  Vallambrosa," 
Countless  as  the  stars, —  they  met 
Death  in  every  gallant  shape. 

Some  on  their  "  first  field  "  were  fallen, 
Some,  the  heat  and  burden  bore, — 

Gnawing  pains  of  thirst  and  hunger, 
Fierce  alarms,  and  scenes  of  woe, 

Sickening  strife  of  blood, —  before 

The  last  act  of  their  play  was  o'er. 

Never  will  a  wilder  legend 

Follow  down  the  ranks  of  time; 
Never  will  the  hoary  ages 

Listen  to  a  grander  chime, — 
Surging  on  through  prose  or  rhyme, 
Than  this  epic,  so  sublime, — 

Than  this  sacrifice  to  duty, — 
Than  this  sacramental  claim, — 


ii4  LAYS  FROM  THE  SUNNY  LANDS, 

This  high-hearted,  youthful  valor, 

To  preserve  a  home,  a  name, — 

Than  the  marvel, —  how  it  came, — 

Striplings  sprang  to  stalwart  men 


WARFARE. 

1  Man's  a  sojer;  and  life's  a  faught.'l — Burns. 

THE  world's  a  battle  field,  and  he 

Who  buckles  on  this  life, 
Must  meet  his  foeman's  steel,  or  be 

A  caitiff  in  the  strife. 

Each  for  himself  alone  must  stand; 

No  substitute  will  do; 
You  must  embattle  hand  to  hand, 

And  push  it  bravely  through. 

No  armistice  is  ever  sworn, 
No  flag  of  truce  upreared, 

How-oft-soever  victory's  won, 
New  charges  are  prepared. 

The  soldier  in  the  ranks  must  fight, 

The  captain  at  the  head; 
But  all  deserve  a  warrior's  right, 

Who  for  the  truth  have  bled. 

Far  down  in  the  low  vales  of  life 
Are  men  who  daily  strive 

To  battle  with  its  wants  and  strife, 
And  with  true  courage  live. 

Yet,  he  who  stems  temptation's  flood, 
By  ease  and  luxury. raised, 

Is  still  more  soldier-like  in  blood, 
And  no  less  to  be  praised! 

("5) 


Ii6  LAYS  FROM  THE  SUNNY  LANDS. 

Fight  not  to  win  a  glorious  name, 
Fight  not  for  glittering  pelf, — 

The  warrior  who  deserves  most  praise 
Is  conqueror  of  himself! 

Keep  not  the  recompense  in  view, — 

The  comfort  for  your  toil; 
The  test  of  soldiership  is  true 

Rendition  of  the  spoil. 

Your  sharpest  conflicts  all  will  end 
Just  where  they  first  begin; 

The  sternest  tilts  our  trials  send 
Are  with  indwelling  sin, — 

To  lie  in  wait  for  evil  thoughts, 

Our  evil  deeds  control, 
To  check  the  course  wrong  habits  brought 

And  fixed  upon  the  soul, — 

To  bear  our  daily  cross  with  care, 

Whatever  that  may  be, 
And  from  our  sinful  hearts  to  tear 

Some  vile  idolatry. 

.     A  veteran  with  many  scars 

Fears  not  the  trumpet's  call; 
This  life  of  warfare  well  prepares 
For  the  last  joust  of  all. 

I  heard  a  warrior  at  the  last 
Thus  speaking  to  his  soul: 
'  'Tis  done,  the  warfare  now  is  past. 
And  I  have  reached  the  goal. 


WARFARE.  117 

"  A  good  fight  I  have  fought,  henceforth 

My  weapons  I  lay  down; 
My  Judge,  my  righteous  Judge,  now  doth 
Appoint  to  me  a  crown  !  " 


LITTLE   COTTAGE   HOME. 

IN  a  charming  little  dell  where  the  sweetest  zephyrs 
dwell, 

And  the  wild  bees  love  to  roam, 
In  joy  and  in  content,  many  happy  days  I  spent 

In  my  sweet  little  cottage  home. 

The  red  berries  gleamed  on  the  clear  rippling  stream, 

From  the  arching  boughs  above; 
And  the  hawthorn  pale  filled  with  fragrance  the  vale 

Where  our  merry  little  footsteps  roved. 

But  those  footsteps  gay  have  all  passed  away 

From  that  little  cottage  home  so  dear; 
And  of  all  the  friends  so  joyous  then, 

I  only  linger  here. 

(118) 


SHADOWS. 

"  There  is  a  skeleton  in  every  house." 

WITHIN  a  spacious  mansion,  grand  and  fair, 

I  chanced  to  dine.     A  noble  pair 

With  stately  courtesy  the  banquet  graced, 

Whose  richness  and  profusion  to  the  taste 

Left  nothing  unattained.     The  lady's  brow 

Bedecked  in  jewels,  shone  with  smiles  just  now. 

My  lord's  reception  very  bland  and  sweet, — 

When  something  caused  by  chance  their  eyes  to  meet- 

A  shadow  crossed  her  face.     I  looked,  and  there, — 

The  skeleton  behind  the  lady's  chair! 

I  saw  a  vine-clad  porch  upon  the  street 
Latticed  with  jasmine,  and  with  roses  sweet. 
Two  sisters  stood  behind  the  fragrant  screen 
Lovely  as  houri's,  and  more  pure,  I  ween. 
A  strain  of  music,  floating  on  the  air, 
Came  stealing  through  the  open  windows  there. 
And  then,  a  scream  dissolved  the  magic  spell: 
A  brother,  reeling,  on  the  threshold  fell. 
The  shadow  of  that  sorrow  came  before; 
The  skeleton  had  entered  at  the  door! 

One  evening,  unexpectedly,  I  went 

To  make  a  social  call,  where  beauty  lent 

Attractive  graces.     Sisters,  brothers,  all, 

Did  honor  to  the  old  ancestral  hall; 

So  deemed  we;  but  with  hand  upon  the  door, 

My  ears  were  greeted  by  a  deaf'ning  roar 

("9) 


LA  YS  FROM  THE  SUNNY  LA. YDS. 

Of  angry  voices.     In  the  stunning  strife. 
Each  clamored,  as  if  pleading  for  his  life. 
The  shadow  brooded  there,  with  settled  gloom; 
The  skeleton  was  rampant  in  that  room! 

Again,  attracted  by  the  graces  sweet, 

Of  some  fair  maidens,  who  were  wont  to  greet 

Me,  all  with  smiles  and  courtesy,  I  went 

To  tea  one  evening.      Books  and  music  lent 

A  charm  to  beauty.      Unalloyed  delight 

Seemed  the  presiding  genius  of  the  night. 

At  some  remark  I  looked  up  from  my  book, 

One  sister  gave  the  other  such  a  look! 

The  shadow  vanished  with  a  specious  smile; 

The  skeleton  grinned  horribly  the  while! 

I  passed  the  dwelling  of  the  man  of  God, — 

Here  he  was  made  to  pass  beneath  the  rod, — 

The  gates  propped  up,  the  fences  down,  declare 

That  listlessness  which  springeth  from  despair; 

The  windows  patched,  a  rose-screen  hid  from  view, 

The  walls  had  lately  sanded  been,  anew. 

The  good  man's  face  was  pinched  with  want,  and  poor, 

But  still  his  well-brushed  Sunday  suit  he  wore. 

A  boy  came  slyly  out,  with  elbows  torn; 

A  girl  ran  in,  to  hide  her  tattered  gown. 

I  saw  a  meagre  shadow  on  the  floor. 

The  skeleton  was  knocking  at  th~  door! 

Upon  a  charming  friend  I  went  to  call; 
They  ushered  me  into  a  noble  hall, 
Where,  garnered  up,  were  treasuries  of  art, 
And  every  luxury  that  could  impart 
A  charm  to  wealth.     A  lady  sweet  and  fair 
Came  in  with  fuschias  in  her  braided  hair. 


SHADO  WS. 

The  prattling  babes  climbed  up  upon  my  knee 
And  filled  the  gorgeous  room  with  cherub  glee. 
'  Here,  then,"  I  said,  "  is  happiness,  at  last!" 
The  shadow  at  that  moment  flitted  past: 
A  brutal  speech,  a  sigh, —  Oh,  shocking  race! 
The  skeleton  was  in  the  drunkard's  face! 

A  pleasant  message  was  announced  one  morn: 

A  son  unto  his  father's  house  was  born. 

The  parents  sought  an  infant's  winning  ways, 

But  met  the  idiot's  broad,  unmeaning  gaze. 

I  watched  the  boy  as  he  grew  up  to  man. 

The  little  things  he  loved  so  well  to  scan 

With  driveling  laughter,  or  with  hideous  rage 

Denied  the  toys  so  far  beneath  his  age. 

With  piteous  whine  he  claimed  his  mother's  love; 

This,  more  than  all  things  else,  her  pity  moved. 

The  life-long  shadow  hung  upon  her  heart, — 

The  skeleton  could  never  thence  depart! 

A  suppliant  and  her  babe!     I  saw  them  kneel 
To  move  a  father's  heart,  grown  hard  as  steel. 
She  had  been,  once,  his  pride  and  joy;  but  all 
His  hopes  were  crushed  beneath  her  dreadful  fall. 
Unmoved  by  flowing  tears  and  faded  cheek, 
He  bade  her  go,  some  other  home  to  seek; 
And  not  one  gleam  of  future  hope  he  gave, 
From  infamy,  his  erring  child  to  save! 
She  went, —  the  shadow  took  its  station  there. 
The  skeleton  became  that  father's  heir! 

The  millionaire  lay  on  his  couch  of  state, 
A  host  of  friends,  assiduous,  round  did  wait 
To  sooth  his  pain,  but  nothing  gave  him  ease; 
They  ministered  unto  a  mind  diseased. 


2  LA  YS  FROM  THE  SUNNY  LANDS. 

His  only  son, —  long  profligate  and  wild, — 
Was  now  degraded  by  a  robbery  vile. 
Oh,  bitterest  cup  of  all  thai  misery  brings, — 
The  love  that's  wasted  on  unworthy  things! 
"  Bring  pen  and  ink,"  the  father  said,  and  groaned. 
'Twas  brought.    That  son  was  written  down  disowned. 
I  looked  around,  the  fatal  shadow  fled, — 
The  skeleton  lay  crouching  on  the  bed! 

Attracted  by  such  screams  as  only  come 

From  those  long  suffering  in  the  house  of  do^m, 

I  turned  aside  and  saw  a  mother  there, 

In  all  the  racking  tortures  of  despair. 

Her  hands  were  manacled.     That  day  she  made 

Some  murderous  efforts  to  destroy  her  babe. 

The  frightened  band  of  children  from  her  fly; 

The  husband  dares  not  now  approach  too  nigh. 

A  shadow  of  deep  horror  filled  the  room, — 

The  skeleton  ran  gibbering  through  the  gloom! 

I  passed  the  quarters  of  the  convict's  cell. 
There  many  faces  were  1  knew  full  well 
Had  once  been  innocent  and  pure  as  mine, 
But  now  were  bloated  and  deformed  by  crime. 
Some  features  still  with  rage  and  malice  burned; 
Some,  to  remorse  and  penitence  were  turned. 
Their  shame  and  misery  on  my  pity  won; 
"  Alas!  "  I  said,   "  each  was  some  mother's  son!  " 
How  many  homes  are  shadowed  o'er  to-day! 
How  many  skeletons  around  them  play! 

Oh,  God  of  Love!    Is  this  the  state  of  man? 
Has  Nature,  in  reserve,  no  final  plan 
To  shield  him  from  these  horrid  shapes  of  woe 
Which  so  torment  him  in  this  vale  below? 


SHADOWS.  123 

No!    While  rebellions  still  their  standards  rear, 

The  shadows  of  our  warfare  will  appear. 

No  rest  from  sin's  devices  may  we  see. 

Till  "  Death  is  swallowed  up  in  victory." 

When  righteousness  and  peace  are  joined  in  one. 

The  skeleton's  terrific  work  is  done. 


LOVE    AND    THE    FLOWERS. 

(  Under  an  Engrai'ing  in  an  Album.) 

'Tis  WELL  he  wears  no  brow  of  gloom, — 

That  pretty,  smiling  boy, — 
'Tis  well  no  shades  of  sorrow  come 

Across  his  lip  of  joy; 
For  vainly  would  we  spread  the  net 

In  sight  of  any  bird; 
And  youthful  maidens  are  not  caught 
Where  truth  alone  is  heard! 

Tell  them  "  he's  but  a  gaudy  thing, 

And  painted,  at  the  best. 
And  that  his  barbed  arrow  stings 

To  rob  the  heart  of  rest," — 
Tell  them  "  he  of  times  uses  wings; 

And,  though  he  should  be  true,   • 
He's  willful,  passionate,  and  blind 

To  every  candid  view," — 

Tell  them  "  that  life  hath  frequent  scenes 

Of  stern  and  rigid  care, 
For  which  his  flatt'ries  have  no  spell, 

His  voice  no  fitting  prayer," — 
They'll  from  these  promptings  turn  away, 

As  the  deaf  adder  turns, 
And  bask  them  in  the  light  which  Love 

Upon  his  altar  burns. 

Ah,  yes;  he  wears  a  wreathed  smile, 
And  sports  a  thornless  rose; 

(124) 


LOVE  AND  THE  FLOWERS.  125 

His  only  labor  is  to  wile 

The  heart  from  human  woes; 
He  never  saw  a  cloudy  day; 

Or  if  some  drops  of  rain 
Did  chance,  he  kissed  them  all  away, 

And  made  things  bright  again  ! 

Too  sure, —  too  sure  you  are  to  win, 

Young  mocker!  in  this  guise; 
You've  scarcely  any  need  to  hold 

The  mirror  to  her  eyes; 
But,  lest  she  see  the  arrowy  point, 

And  dread  your  tyrant  powers, 
Take  off  your  bow  and  quiver,  quick 

And  hide  thetn  'neath  the  floiws  ! 


MY    FOREST    HOME. 

A  QUIET  spot  there  is,  embowered  in  shade, 
Where  in  my  happy  infancy  I  played; 
There  winter  sheds  a  mild  and  genial  ray. 
And  summer  suns  no  arid  beams  display. 
Tis  a  secluded  wild.     The  world's  rude  strife 
Has  never  breathed  upon  its  vernal  life; 
Nor  pride,  nor  pomp,  nor  pageantry  is  known 
In  the  deep  shadow  of  my  forest  home. 

But  skies  of  softest  blue  are  beaming  there, 
And  balmiest  incense  floats  upon  the  air; 
There  zephyrs  earliest  come  with  laden  wings. 
And  there  the  sweetest  bird  of  summer  sings. 
And  tints  of  tenderest  hue  and  deep  repose, 
O'er  the  rich  trees  a  veil  of  beauty  throw 
So  soft  and  shadowy  as  makes  life  own 
A  dream's  existence  in  my  forest  home. 

A  dream's  existence!  Aye,  a  poet's  dream! 
Where  earth  too  Eden-like  for  sorrow  seems, — 
Where  thoughts  of  life  are  blent  with  hallowed  shades, 
And  sin's  reality  from  memory  fades. 
Such,  and  so  beautiful  the  charms,  for  me, 
Which  dwelt  in  that  old  loving  forestry. — 
The  wildest,  sweetest  dreams  to  childhood  known 
Are  imaged  in  thy  shades,  my  forest  home! 
*#**** 

Long  years  of  wanderings  have  o'er  me  rolled; 
And  other  homes  of  love  for  me  unfold; 
(126) 


M  Y  FOREST  HOME.  1 2  7 

Still  memory,  true  to  those  embow'ring  shades 
Where  in  my  happy  infancy  I  played, — 
While  other  scenes  have  on  my  spirit  palled, — 
Brings  back  the  visions  which  my  heart  enthralled 
As  turns  the  sunflower  to  her  god,  alone 
Turn  I  to  thee,  my  own  sweet  forest  home! 


POOR   LITTLE    ZIP. 

WHAT  sounds  that  in  at  my  casement  steal. 
Taking  me  back  to  the  "  Land  o'  the  leal"  ; 
Where  the  pibroch  wild  the  echoes  fills, 
As  they  leap  from  the  crags  on  old  Scotia's  hills  ? 

Run,  Emmie,  and  Lucy,  and  Flossie,  and  Belle, — 
Run,  little  black  Pete  and  big  black  Nell  ; 
Run  one,  run  all,  to  the  door  and  see 
What  this  pragmatic  noise  can  be! 

There's  a  little  brown  monkey,  as  I'm  alive! 
If  the  three  brawny  showmen  would  but  contrive 
To  shorten  its  tail,  and  to  hide  its  feet, 
The  "  metamorphose  "  would  be  complete. 

His  trim  little  jacket  is  dyed  in  red  ; 
A  jaunty  cap  on  his  little  round  head, 
Which  he  snips  off  and  on  again  in  a  trice. 
And  makes  his  "  salaam  "  in  a  way  quite  nice. 

But  now  the  bagpipes  puff  and  swell, 

A  signal  that  poor  little  Zip  knows  well; 

So,  he  dances  around  at  the  length  of  his  chain, 

And  snips  off  his  little  red  cap  again. 

The  children  are  laughing.      It  well  may  be; 
For  Zip  has  climbed  to  the  darkey's  knee, 
And  hangs  on  his  back  with  a  mawkish  grin, 
As  much  as  to  say,  "  I  have  found  my  kin ! " 
(128) 


POOR  LITTLE  ZIP.  129 

After  this  brief  little  escapade, 

To  the  credit  of  evolution  made, — 

Zip  mounts  aloft  to  the  arched  roof, 

And  gives  us  of  "  natural  selection"  a  proof. 

And  thus  his  ambition  for  rising  grades 
He  shows,  by  "  modification's"  aid  ; 
But  a  cruel  jerk,  at  the  master's  will, 
Proves  poor  little  Zip  a  monkey  still! 

The  artists  have  placed  their  pipes  in  sheath, 
To  Zip's  and  the  hearers'  great  relief; 
A  farewell  nod,  and  his  cap  is  doffed  ; 
He  jumps  to  his  seat  and  the  band  is  off. 

Perhaps  'tis  not  very  wise  to  be 
Compounding  with  idle  vagrancy; 
But  "  Live  and  let  live,"  is  a  golden  rule 
I  learned,  par  catir,  in  my  mother's  school. 

For  a  nickel  or  two  and  a  piece  of  bread, 
The  children  a  merry  treat  have  had; 
If  the  money  is  lost,  I  will  not  cry, — 
When  the  children  are  happy,  so  am  I! 


PLANTATION    SKETCHES. 


THE    OLD    HOMESTEAD. 

THROUGH  the  dark  shadows  of  my  later  dreams 
How  beautiful,  e'en  now,  to  me  it  seems, 
That  grand  old  forest,  sweeping  far  away 
Where  clouds  and  sunshine  in  the  ether  play, 
Leaving  some  noble  oaks  to  guard  the  dome 
Of  the  old-fashioned  house  I  called  my  home. 

In  the  young  summer's  greenness,  when  the  leaves 
O'er  bower  and  branches  such  a  mantle  weave 
Of  rich  brocade,  festooning  earth  and  sky, 
And  bringing  Nature's  glorious  mysteries  nigh, 
Its  overpowering  presence  seemed  to  roll 
A  weight  of  beauty  on  my  raptured  soul. 

And  when  the  pale  moon  lighted  up  the  night, 
And,  with  its  telegraphic  fingers,  strove  to  write, 
Through  the  green,  flick'ring  draperies,  on  the  earth, 
Strange,  weird  thoughts  within  my  mind  had  birth; 
And,  lingering  long,  I  fondly  watched  to  see 
The  genii  peeping  from  each  massive  tree. 

But,  chiefly,  where  the  hillside  sloped  away 
Down  to  the  east,  I  loved  to  watch  the  play 
Of  the  first  sunbeams  as  they  trembling  glanced 
From  the  white  maple  leaves,  or  lightly  danced 
Through  the  notched  foliage  of  the  emerald  gum, 
Into  a  thousand  silver  fibers  spun, — 

Leaving  the  pea-green  hickory  shrubs  in  shade, 
And,  'neath  the  alders,  such  play-houses  made! 

(133) 


134  LA  YS  FROM  THE  SUNNY  LANDS. 

A  cool,  enchanting,  sylvan  labyrinth, 

Sweet  to  young  hearts  just  fresh  from  Nature's  mint, 

With  golden  sassafras  in  pleasant  view, 

Delicious  red-bud,  and  the  honey  dew — 

Dotting  the  long  leaves  of  the  grand  papaw 
Where  humming-birds  their  sweetest  nectar  draw 
From  amber  blossoms  in  rich  clusters  spread; 
And,  singing  at  their  work,  high  overhead, 
The  cheerful  bees  with  music  filled  the  air 
Already  redolent  with  perfume,  where  — 

Prolific  bullaces  and  flowering  grape 
Enwreathed  the  boughs  in  every  graceful  shape. 
Were  ever  trees  like  these?  Or  does  the  grand 
Old  earth  afford  a  spot  so  exquisitely  plann'd 
As  that  which  first,  upon  our  dawning  eyes, 
As  home,  sweet  home,  broke  in  its  glad  surprise? 

As  mem'ry  to  the  mirrored  haunts  of  youth 

Carries  meback,  the  old  paths  lie  before  me  in  their  truth. 

Fresh  as  if  yesterday  they  guided  me 

To  scenes  enchanting  in  their  novelty. 

Years  vanish, —  and  the  interlude  of  pain, — 

I  seem  to  be  a  happy  child  again! 

Upon  the  loving  portal  now  I  stand, 

But  not  alone.     With  me  a  merry  band 

As  e'er  plucked  berries  from  the  topmost  bough, 

And  mastered  obstacles, —  no  matter  how, — 

Three  noble  boys,  discursive,  active,  wild, 

Sportive  as  lambs,  and  just  as  free  from  guile. 

The  fairest  blossoms  of  the  woods  they  knew; 
And  who,  so  well  as  they,  where  wild  plums  grew? 


THE  OLD  HOMESTEAD.  135 

The  earliest  nuts  their  secret  treasuries  filled; 
They  dammed  the  brook  to  work  our  mimic  mill, 
Or  launched  our  tiny  boats  upon  the  stream 
Where  the  deep  water  looked  so  still  and  green. 

We  drank  from  leaf-cups  at  the  crystal  spring; 
And  to  old  gnarled  roots  did  mosses  bring 
Richer  than  Brussels;  and  our  shelves  we  filled 
With  acorn  cups, —  in  sage  housewif'ry  skilled, — 
Played  out  our  little  parts  upon  that  stage, 
The  mimic  Buskins  of  a  future  age! 

Oh,  blessed  age!  and  blessed  infancy! 
Which  may  to  Nature's  charms  devoted  be, 
At  ease  to  con  her  lessons  o'er, 
And  every  nook  and  cairn  of  hers  explore; 
Imbibing  healthful  air  and  germs  of  taste, 
Stored  up  against  the  days  of  fashion's  waste; 

Strengthening  the  soul  against  the  power  of  sin; 
Keeping  all  pure  and  bright  and  fresh  within; 
Kindling  a  glow  that  never  can  grow  cold; 
Training  a  heart  that  never  will  grow  old; 
Making  all  life  a  holiday  to  see; 
A  gala  robe  of  every  bush  and  tree! 

Alas!  for  those  cribb'd  in  malarial  rooms, 

Or  mid  the  city's  vice-surrounded  glooms! 

Old  in  their  infancy  with  dearth  and  care, 

The  creature's  wants  no  generous  motives  share' 

How  sad  to  have  no  leisure  to  begin 

Life  with  the  birds,  and  Nature's  blessings  win! 

Benevolence  and  Joy  go  hand  in  hand; 
This,  we  were  early  taught  to  understand, 


I3&  LA  YS  FROM  THE  SUNNY  LANDS. 

And  soon  the  happy  almoners  became 
Of  one,  who,  though  she  never  heard  the  voice  of  Fame. 
Wears  yet  a  crown  in  heaven!     Angel  of  mercy,  she 
The  poor  sought  out,  without  partiality. 

One  of  the  foot-ways  that  we  loved  to  tread, 
Down  by  the  "  quarters"  huts  and  gardens,  led 
Along  the  hillside  through  a  copse  of  pines, 
And  stopped  upon  the  marshy,  damp  confines 
Of  a  small  streamlet.     Here,  at  fall  of  eve 
The  tribes  of  "  Rana  "  would  their  concert  weave, — 

The  doleful  hootings  of  the  owl  were  heard, 
The  bat's  sharp  cry,  the  beetle's  angry  "  thud," 
And  all  the  dismal  voices  of  the  wood. 
But  on  this  dreary  spot  a  dwelling  stood; 
Homely  and  small,  yet  rudely  circled  round 
With  some  artistic  rows  of  garden  ground. 

Cabbage  and  onions  there  had  found  a  place, 
And  that  "vile  weed,"  suggestive  of  a  race 
Excitable.     What  lured  to  this  uninviting  spot 
The  merry  children  of  a  happier  lot? 
Errands  of  love,  which  every  tyro  knows 
Can  make^he  desert  blossom  with  the  rose! 

"Old  Agathie"  lured  there!    A  lonely  being  she, 
Who,  in  mistaken  kindness  was  set  free, 
A  pensioner  upon  the  world's  great  debt, 
With  none  to  press  her  claim,  and  yet 
She  had  her  freedom, — yes,  but  nothing  else; 
The  "  Cup  of  Tantalus"  was  all  her  wealth! 

A  long  probation  God  had  given  her  then, 
And  so  she  felt, —  poor  Agathie!  —  as  when 


THE  OLD  HOMESTEAD.  137 

With  modest  mien  she  wandered  up  and  down, 
Where  no  relief,  no  sympathy  was  found; 
And  wondered  why  she  could  not  cast  the  shell 
Of  old  mortality,  and  with  the  angels  dwell. 

To  want  no  more!    And  yet,  she  murmured  not, 
But  met  with  quiet  dignity  her  lot; 
Accepting  for  her  yarn,  or  knitted  stuff, 
Scant  courtesy  sometimes,  and  oft  rebuff; 
Still  trusting  wholly  in  his  word  who  said, 
The  righteous  never  shall  be  wanting  bread. 

At  length  that  God  who  hears  the  raven's  call, 
And  notes  the  tiny  sparrows  when  they  fall, 
Her  weary  feet  to  the  "  Old  Homestead  "  brought, 
Where  quickly  rose  for  her  the  humble  cot. 
To  that  good  Master's  generous  ear  and  brain 
The  appeal  of  woman  ne'er  was  made  in  vain! 

'Curses  come  home  to  roost,"  then  why  not  say 
Blessings  their  donors  amply  will  repay, 
Even  as  the  sun-drawn  vapors  fall  again, 
Refreshing  earth  with  gentle  dews  and  rain? 
Just  so  the  Lord  that  household  well  repaid 
For  deeds  of  mercy  to  his  dark  handmaid. 

Unpolished,  ignorant  she  must  have  been, 
Despised  by  many  for  her  ebon  skin. 
But  love  of  holy  things  had  schooled  her  sense 
Above  the  worldling's  merely  vain  pretence; 
The  strong  desire  to  know  the  word  of  God, 
A  keener  culture  gave  than  rule  or  rod. 

What  most  we  love,  in  that  we  best  succeed; 
Enthusiasm  is  "God  in  us,"  indeed! 


138  LA  YS  FKOM   THE  SL'XXY  LAXDS. 

The  Christian's  thoughts,  however  weak  or  great. 
From  contemplating  God,  will  imitate; 
Thus  prayer  ennobles  and  refines  the  thought, 
And  brings  reflection, —  in  the  schools  untaught. 

This  mental  training  in  her  manner  fused 
A  conciousness  of  worth,  with  modest  use. 
Of  all  the  forms  which  to  her  state  belonged, 
She  neither  servant  nor  master  wronged, 
And  thus  in  her  serene  and  quiet  way, 
She  set  a  meek  example,  day  by  day. 

But  not  content  with  this,  she  oft  bestowed 
Drops  from  the  pious  fountain,  which  o'erflowed 
Her  loving  heart,  to  all  who  kindness  gave; 
And  much  she  strove  her  countrymen  to  save! 
Yet,  the  great  "  Pearl  of  price  "  would  recommend 
To  her  superiors  who  an  ear  would  lend. 

Most  precious  now,  among  the  things  that  be, 

An  olden  picture,  which  I  often  see 

In  mem'ry's  necromantic  glass, —  a  sweet 

And  youthful  mother  on  a  cushioned  seat, 

A  dark-browed  woman,  with  her  eyes  of  greed, 

Intent  upon  the  "  Word  of  Life"  to  feed. 

That  mother,  mid  the  freshest  joys  of  life, 
-The  loving  parent,  and  the  model  wife, 
Had  yet,  perhaps,  no  soberer  thoughts  embraced; 
But  who  shall  say,  that  in  her  after  race, 
She  did  not  with  this  blessed  truth  agree: 
"  Who  water  others,  they  shall  watered  be  "? 


THE    PIONEER. 

i. 
OH,  Time  and  Sorrow!     Hallowed  is  the  touch 

Ye  give  the  past!     Soft  as  the  mother's  tread 
Beside  the  sleeping  babe;  even  such 

Is  the  kind  hand  with  which  ye  raise  the  dead 
From  the  dark  sleep  of  years,  while  all  too  much 

Our  hearts  are  weeping  for  the  voices  fled; 
And  joys  come  limping  on  their  broken  crutch, 

Most  faithfully  and  sadly  by  you  led 

Down  the  long  vista,  opening  still  and  dread! 

II. 
No  mirth  irrever'nt,  nor  mocking  spleen, 

Vented  on  "other  days"  can  ye  endure; 
No  censures  harsh,  nor  ridicule  profane. 

Dare  touch  the  beauty  of  the  "  things  of  yore  "; 
Ye  have  the  secret  sign,  the  true  "  sesame," 

To  all  the  dearest  things  life  hath  in  store; 
And  vulgar  footsteps  ne'er  shall  enter  in 

That  sacred  portal,  locked  by  you  before 

The  aroma  of  life  was  breathed  no  more. 

in. 
Its  perfumed  cloisters  open  then  to  me, 

And  from  the  many  portraits  hung  upon 
Its  walls,  the  dust  brush  off,  that  I  may  see 

The  dark,  yet  pleasant  lineaments  of  one, 
Who,  though  imperfect,  gave  to  you  and  me 

Our  due  unasked,  and  then,  his  duty  done, 
Went  up,  in  heaven  a  servitor  to  be. 

(139) 


140  LA  YS  FROM  THE  SUNNY  LANDS. 

Let  not  the  tall,  gaunt  form  provoke  to  fun, 
Nor  the  crisp,  hoary  locks  the  finic  stun; 

IV. 

For  beauty  does  not  live  in  form  or  eye, 
Nor  in  the  toute  ensemble.     On  the  whole, 

Tis  the  electric  flash, —  the  pure  psychology, 
The  intact  of  one  intellectual  soul 

With  kindred  essences,  by  which  the  high 
And  nobler  impulses,  which  o'er  us  roll, 

Strike  off  some  sparks  from  immortality! 
No  stoics  are  ye,  of  the  olden  school, 
Seeking  perfection  by  the  cynics'  rule. 

v. 
The  veil  of  charity  then  softly  throw, 

In  hazy  shadowings,  o'er  the  frailties  found 
In  the  poor  dwellers  on  this  vale  below. 

The  rougher  angles  gently  softened  down 
Bring  back  the  generous  traits  which  did  abound 

In  my  old  friend;  the  delicate  perceptions  shown. 
The  courtesy,  which  threw  such  grace  around 

His  deeds,  and  we  shall  see  the  personnel 

The  mere  exterieure  very  far  excel ! 

VI. 

The  "Old  Plantation's"  sturdy  pioneer, — 

His  strong  arm  fashioned  the  first  rustic  "  bield," 
His  good  arm  trained  the  earliest  furrows  there: 
"  How  jocund  did  he  drive  his  team  afield" 
To  gather  in  the  yellow  grain  with  care. 

Or,  for  the  semi-annual  jaunt  to  market,  yield 
His  most  sagacious  ken.     This  chef  d'cevre 

Was  looked  upon  with  no  small  interest  where 
His  safe  return  was  crowned  with  so  much  cheer. 


THE  PIONEER.  141 

VII. 

Beside  the  "good  things,"  stored  for  household  use, 
Brave,  thrifty  "Jim  "  from  his  own  crop  could  spare 

Nuts  for  the  "wee  ones"  of  his  master's  house, 
And  "  lots"  of  fineries  for  his  daughters  dear, 

And  by  his  dealing  with  a  hand  so  loose 
He  came  the  reputable  name  to  bear 

Of  "  Uncle  Jim,"  the  richest,  and,  in  truth, 
Most  generous  of  colored  gentlemen,  so  near 
Does  thrift  the  garb  of  real  virtue  wear! 

VIII. 

His  mental  calibre  and  taste  were  far 
Above  the  herd;  but,  more  than  this,  he  stood 

A  prince  among  his  class.     In  peace  and  war, 
Un  homme galant  he  was,  both  brave  and  good! 

Few  stronger  arms,  or  kinder  hearts  there  are! 
And  none  to  aid  the  weak  more  promptly  would; 

But  better  yet  than  this,  he  kept  a  cow, 

A  score  of  "  hives,"  fruit  trees  and  herbs;  and  sure 
His  place  as  "  Host"  was  then  no  sinecure! 

IX. 

Moreover,  he  his  visitors  could  while, 

Of  many  a  vacant  hour,  with  "  tales  of  old," 

Told  in  his  own  unique  and  racy  style, — 
Of  revolutionary  days,  grown  bold 

In  crime,  unlicensed.     Oft  he  won  a  smile 
With  cunning  tricks  of  hand  he  did  unfold. 

Trained  early  by  a  master  brave  but  wild, 

By  which  the  "  traitor's"  noblest  steeds  he  stole, 
Though  yet  a  simple  waiter  —  ten  years  old! 

x. 
Some  small  obliquities  of  speech  and  eye, 

Gained  in  this  evil  school,  "  finesse,"  in  short. 


£42  LA  YS  FROM  THE  SUNATY  LANDS. 

Joined  to  his  manner  bland,  and  piety, 

Made  union  so  grotesque,  that  in  some  sort 

His  name  did  under  imputations  lie. 

Unlike  great  Caesar's  wife,  he  was  not  thought 

Above  suspicion  of — hypocrisy! 

How  many  a  charge,  by  prejudices  wrought, 
Dissolves  when  to  the  sun  of  truth  'tis  brought. 

XI. 

When,  as  a  curious  child,  I  often  sought 
The  kitchen  walk,  seated  upon  his  knee, 

I  listened  to  his  loving  words  about 
The  Master,  Jesus.     Afterward,  when  free 

To  wander  as  I  listed,  oft  my  route 

Inquisitive  would  through  his  garden  be, 

Or  near  the  windows  of  his  hives,  to  see 
The  working  bees  go  softly  in  and  out, 
Peering  most  curiously  where  I  should  not. 

XII. 

Then  gently  would  he  stop  my  roving  feet, 

And  point  me  to  that  blest  but  narrow  way 
Which  only  enters  at  the  heavenly  gate, 

And  where  the  only  watchword  is,  to  pray; 
Or,  shuddering,  warn  me  of  that  broad,  broad  street, 

Down  which,  in  visions,  both  by  night  and  day, 
He  saw  the  thousands  rushing  on  to  meet, 

In  mad  succession,  all  the  woes  that  lie 

In  the  dread  chasm  of  eternity! 

XIII. 

My  poor  old  friend  this  testimony  hath 

To  his  sincerity:  The  Saviour  saith 
Of  him  that's  sheltered  from  the  coming  wrath, 
"  The  left  hand  knows  not  what  the  other  doth." 
His  love  for  souls  was  witness  to  his  faith; 


THE  PIOXEER.  143 

And,  though  his  early  life  had  been  but  rough, 
His  last  days  were  his  best.      His  evening  path 
Was  like  the  blessed  pathway  of  the  just, 
Which  shineth  more  and  brighter  than  at  first. 

XIV. 

Long  has  he  been  upon  that  blissful  shore, 

Which,  with  the  eye  of  faith,  he  long  had  seen, 
Where  tempests  never  beat  nor  billows  roar. 

Though  vigorous  with  his  four-score  years  and  ten, 
He  had  been  daily  looking  heavenward  more, 

Waiting  the  coming  of  the  Son  of  Man. 
At  last,  he  laid  him  down,  the  journey  o'er, 
"As  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 

About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams." 

xv. 
It  is  a  blessed  thought,  old  friend,  that  here, 

Living  for  others,  you  were  taught  to  die! 
That  cleansing  Fountain,  ever  fresh  and  pure, — 

But  in  your  own  bright  land,  so  parched  and  dry, — 
Gushed  from  the  Word  of  Life,  and  followed  near 

Your  toil-worn  steps,  and  lightened  every  sigh, 
And  made  the  paths  of  duty  easier. 

Light  work  it  was  to  purchase  glory's  crown 

By  a  few  years  of  privilege  laid  down ! 


POOR    RACHEL. 

i. 

As  DOWN  through  the  valley  of  sorrow  I  passed, 
Pursuing  the  pleasures  too  fleeting  to  last, 
Near  the  home  of  my  childhood  I  found  me  once  more; 
But,  alas!  for  the  things  so  delightful  before; 
The  beautiful  forest,  the  joy  of  my  youth, 
Had  fallen  a  prey  to  utility's  ruth. 

II. 

Of  all  the  grand  oaks  which  the  genii  had  claimed, 
One  relic,  one  beautiful  relic,  remained; 
The  vandal  had  driven  the  cruel  plow-share 
Through  all  my  gay  circles  and  Row' ry  parterre; 
The  old  faded  house,  where  my  parents  had  died, 
And  where  I  had  lived  as  their  joy  and  their  pride, — 

in. 

Towered  dark  and  defiant;  from  every  closed  door 
The  requiem  sounded,  "  No  more!  never  more!" 
The  windows  deserted,  where  once  I  had  seen 
So  many  young  faces  the  shutters  between, 
Looked  down  on  me  sadly  and  silently  there, — 
I  felt  cold  and  benumbed  in  my  gloomy  despair! 

IV. 

But  as  in  my  ramblings  I  stopped  at  the  door 
Of  a  little  old  cabin,  most  wretchedly  poor, 
Whence  the  soul  of  a  servant  ascended  above, 
The  iceberg  dissolved,  and  my  heart  was  so  moved 


POOR  RACHEL.  145 

With  the  thought  of  her  patient  devotion  for  years, 
That  my  stubborn  rebellion  was  melted  to  tears. 

v. 

Perhaps  'twas  a  feeling  connected  with  shame, 
Or  something  akin  to  a  self-adjudged  blame, 
Recalling  a  sense  of  her  meekness  and  worth, 
And  the  small  share  of  comfort  she  had  upon  earth; 
But  'twas  thy  last  lesson,  poor  Rachel,  to  show 
That  out  of  thy  ashes  one  blossom  could  grow, — 

VI. 

The  blossom  of  pity, —  remembering  her  look 
So  quiet  and  peaceful,  which  nothing  e'er  shook! 
Like  Anna,  long  years  she  a  widow  had  been; 
Like  Anna,  she  walked  by  the  Prompter  within; 
And  her  faith  in  the  Saviour  as  ardently  burned 
As  in  those  to  the  Temple  who  constantly  turned. 

VII. 

Few  aids  did  she  have  in  her  strife  to  be  good, 
Poor  Rachel!  but  always  she  did  what  she  could. 
'  I  think,"  said  her  mistress,  "  if  Rachel  had  found 
A  pin,  she  would  seek  for  the  owner  around." 
By  all  who  best  knew,  this  witness  was  borne: 
No  wrong  done  by  Rachel  had  ever  been  known. 

VIII. 

With   that  blessed    old    mistress,    whose  life  was  all 

praise, 

Poor  Rachel  had  lived  in  her  happier  days! 
But  the  fierce  bolts  of  Time  the  old  roof-tree  had  riven. 
And  mistress  and  follower  for  shelter  were  driven 
Beneath  the  kind  homestead,  where,  past  things  forgot, 
She  meekly  took  up  and  accepted  her  lot. 


LA  YS  FROM  THE  SUNNY  LANDS. 

IX. 

No  wonder  she  pitied  the  desolate  lamb! 

How  often,  in  passing,  I  came  to  a  stand, 

And  exchanged  a  soft  smile,  as  with  one  hand  she  fed 

And  the  other  around  it  caressingly  laid. 

Though  Rachel  was  black  and  the  lamb  was  snow  white 

They  seemed  to  me,  always,  most  strikingly  'like! 

x. 

Poor  Rachel!    I  mind  me  one  failing  she  had, 
In  the  eyes  of  the  gourmand  esteemed  very  bad; 
For  when,  as  it  chanced,  she  cuisiniere  did  play, 
The  children  were  likely  to  call  it  "  fast  day." 
What  a  sin,"  she  would  murmur,  "  to  eat  like  a  goose. 
When  things  might  be  laid  up  for  somebody's  use." 

xr. 

One  failing,  but  then  she  had  charity,  large, 
And  virtues  sufficient  to  cover  this  charge. 
Ever  gentle,  and  thoughtful  of  others'  complaints, 
With  a  heart  overflowing  in  love  to  the  saints, 
She  mourned  over  all  under  Satan's  control, 
And  gave  her  small  mite  to  the  conquest  of  souls, — 

XII. 

The  mite  of  her  influence.     When  morning  had  come, 

She  oft  made  excuses  to  enter  my  room, 

And  kneeling,  would  round  me  her  faithful  arms  wrap, 

And  resting  a  moment  her  head  on  my  lap, 

Would  anxiously  ask  what  I  found  on  the  page, 

And  what  were  the  musings  in  which  I  engaged. 

XIII. 

And  then  she  would  point  to  the  Fountain  of  Love, 
And  urge  me  to  place  my  affections  above. 


POOR  RACHEL.  147 

But  in  her  pure  mind  still  there  lingered  a  doubt, 
If  as  Christians  we  left  the  poor  colored  race  out. 
Assured  the  reverse,  her  scruples  all  fled, 
She  received  me  as  one  just  awaked  from  the  dead. 

XIV. 

Changes  came  o'er  me  with  years.     I'd  become 
Guest  rather  than  inmate  of  that  cherish'd  home; 
But  in  every  reunion  no  welcome  there  beamed 
More  brightly  than  Rachel's.     One  day  I  deemed 
Some  mischief  befallen.     They  whispered  me  low, — 
A  long  journey  she  was  preparing  to  go. 

xv. 

The  Master  had  called  her,  and  glad  she  obeyed, 
And  now  in  the  fair  land  of  "  Beulah  "  she  strayed, 
With  the  mountains  "  Delectable  "  full  in  her  view, 
As  nearing  the  gates  of  the  city  she  drew. 
For  weeks  on  the  banks  of  the  river  she  lay, 
Then  joyous,  like  Hopeful,  she  passed  o'er  the  way. 

XVI. 

Poor  Rachel!  the  waters  her  feet  came  not  near, 
As  she  left  the  poor  cabin  for  the  mansion  fair, 
And  she  heard  on  the  border  the  sweet  welcoming 
For  those  who  in  few  things  so  faithful  have  been; 
But  much  shall  I  wonder  if  in  her  bright  crown. 
Some  stars, —  to  her  modest  surprise, —  are  not  found. 


OLD    GEOFFREY. 

THAT  face  was  in  itself  a  picture!  peaceful,  pure, 
For  more  than  twenty  years  it  was  as  now, 

.Save  that  the  grizzled  hair  still  whiter  grew, 
And  thinner,  on  the  high  and  polished  brow. 

"Why  should  it  change?     He  shared  the  golden  mean 

.From  luxury  to  poverty  between; 

His  head  was  sheltered  from  the  storms  of  care, 

Want  had  no  power  to  place  its  fingers  there. 

!His  voice  was  always  very  low  and  soft, 
His  manner  ever  courteous  and  serene, 

.And  from  his  meek  address  I've  looked  up  oft 
To  mark  the  selfish  cunning  which  is  seen 

Under  a  servile  mask,  but  found,  the  while, 

The  truthful  candor  of  a  little  child. 

Why  should  he  fawn,  or  crouch,  all  men  before? 

His  heritage  was  safe,  his  bread  and  water  sure. 

No!  let  the  vassal  crook  the  supple  knee, 
And  cater  for  the  fee  his  lordling  grants; 

No  need  of  canvassing  was  here,  and  he 
Can  well  afford  to  bow  who  nothing  wants. 

Deep  in  the  law  of  universal  love 

•Old  Geoffrey's  code  was  laid,  and  thus  it  proves, 

Whatever  may  be  said  of  race  or  clan, 

Nature  and  grace  do  form  the  gentleman! 

How  pleasantly  it  loometh  up  to  view, 

That  kind  old  face  of  bright  mahogany, 
•Content  and  thankful,  smiling  and  yet  true, 

(148) 


OLD  GEOFFREY.  149, 

The  poet's  paragon  of  honesty! 
The  study  of  that  face  were  better  far 
Than  all  the  scientists'  unmeaning  war, 
To  show, —  whatever  epiderms  they  wear, — 
All  men  some  traces  of  God's  image  bear. 

For  half  a  century,  the  good  old  man! 

The  happiest  osculations  of  his  star 
Round  the  old  homestead  in  conjunction  ran 

With  some  dark  planet,  daily  circling  there. 
True  to  the  claims  and  instincts  of  his  race, 
No  "  visit-evening"  missed  him  from  his  place, 
Where  the  "  auld  gude  wife"  ever  had  in  store 
Small  share  of  "  'plenishin',"  but  kindness  more. 

The  Scottish  bard  has  very  wisely  taught, 

In  happiness  there's  no  monopoly; 
Those  sable  children  of  a  lowly  lot 

Envied  no  prince  his  higher  destiny. 
The  human  heart  has  only  one  great  want, 
Content  the  only  riches  God  doth  grant; 
To  this  their  simple  habitudes  drew  near, 
Which  home  and  homely  comforts  more  endear- 

If  joys  were  few,  so  also  were  their  cares; 

No  dreams  of  rental,  or  a  landlord's  frown, 
Harrowed  the  hours  of  rest,  nor  did  the  fears 

Of  tax  on  bread  make  it  go  harshly  down. 
The  merry  laugh  of  comfort  was  not  stilled 
By  dread  forebodings  of  the  sexton's  bill, — ' 
Happiest  of  all  the  poor!     The  Golden  Age 
Seemed  coming  back  in  their  blest  pupilage! 

Ambition's  fevered  dream  disturbed  them  not, 
Nor  love  of  money  won  their  souls  from  heaven; 


150  LA  YS  FROM  THE  SUNNY  LANDS. 

But  world  forgetting,  by  the  world  forgot, 

Their  thoughts  to  pure  devotion  could  be  given. 
Such  was  the  humble  pair,  who  child-like  drew 
Their  wants  from  others,  and  who  never  knew 
Nor  anxious    thoughts    nor    frowns,  but    in  their 

place 
They  lived  together  as  the  heirs  of  grace, — 

And  made  the  cot  a  bethel.     Oft  at  eve, 

When  o'er  the  dwelling  hung  some  trembling 

star, 
I,  with  my  playmates,  daring  scarce  to  breathe, 

Gave  audience  to  that  unpresuming  prayer; 
No  precedent  my  early  years  had  known, 
How  strangely  sounded  then  that  monotone, 
Which,  like  the  bread  that's  gathered  up  again 
After  a  length  of  days, —  through  all  the  din — 

Of  busy,  troublous  years  has  sweetly  grown 

A  sotto  voce  on  my  heart,  recalling  truth 
Which  conies  to  innocence,  and  that  alone. 

When  wearied  with  religious  forms,  forsooth, 
When  sick  of  falsehoods  and  the  hollow  sound 
Of  tinkling  cymbals,  which  so  much  abound. 
To  me  that  simple,  self-forgetting  prayer 
Is  what  to  drooping  flowers  the  dewdrops  are! 

The  purest  hearts  most  credulous  are  found. 

Poor  Geoffrey  innocently  thought  that  he, 
In  l*ies  which  in  the  human  hand  abound, 

The  path  of  life  for  every  one  could  see! 
How  vainly,  then,  I  tried  to  reconcile 
This  fortune-telling  with  his  want  of  guile. 
Experience  since  has  shown  that  all  men  have 
Some  crotchets  of  the  brain,  which  idly  rave! 


OLD  GEOFFREY.  151 

Methinks  I  see  him,  as  I  saw  him  stand 

One  holiday,  in  modest  attitude, 
Bending  above  the  delicate,  soft  hand 

Of  a  capricious  damsel,  fair  but  rude; 
The  many  crosses  interwoven  there 
O'ercame  the  courtesy  of  the  old  seer; 
No  answer  to  her  anxious  quest  he  gave, 
Except  a  boding  shake  of  his  sage  head. 

Science  he  knew  not,  nor  had  heard  the  name 

Of  palmistry.     Relic  of  heathen  art, 
Transmitted  through  the  aeons,  down  it  came 

To  poor  old  Geoffrey,  who  received,  in  part 
From  sheer  tradition,  from  experience  more. 
In  all  the  sequences  which  daily  flow 
From  outward  causes,  and  the  fruitful  train 
Of  ideas  from  temperament  and  manner  gained. 

Time  rolled  apace.     His  faithful  partner  died; 

But  the  old  prophet  lingered  still  around 
The  pleasant  scene,  where,  in  his  manhood's  pride, 

So  much  of  true  contentment  he  had  found. 
The  path,  long  trod,  had  worn  into  his  heart; 
His  feet  refused  to  trace  another  part. 
Again  the  matrimonial  bond  he  framed,  and  then 
The  family  altar  builded  up  again. 

Again  he  was  bereaved;  and  yet, 

Leaning  upon  the  staff  of  four-score  years, 
The  even  tenor  of  his  way  he  kept, 

Unmoved  by  dark  regrets,  or  bitter  fears, 
And  still  his  face  shone  with  a  soft  delight, 
As  one  who  in  reserve  has  treasures  bright 
Beyond  the  reach  of  casualties, —  joys 
Which  nothing  earthly  gives  nor  yet  destroys. 


152  LA  YS  FROM  THE  SUNNY  LANDS. 

At  length  the  paths  were  silent,  which  before 

The  old  man  trod.     He  came  no  more  abroad. 
Doubtless  'twas  comfortless  and  very  poor 

Where  now  he  lay, —  that  widow'd  abode, — 
To  other  eyes;  but  so  illumined  by 
A  Saviour's  love,  a  palace  seemed  it  nigh 
To  him,  cheered,  too,  by  kind  attentions  done, 
Which  years  of  faultless  servitude  had  won. 

No  riches,  but  that  blessed  faith  he  had; 

No  warrior  qualities  to  win  renown,         • 
But  the  most  obdurate  of  all  things  bad, 

The  human  heart,  he  won.     They  who  had  known 
Benevolence  for  none  now  dealt  as  mild 
And  tenderly  with  him  as  with  a  child. 
And  thus  he  passed  away,  obscure,  unknown, 
But  calendared  by  him,  the  three  in  one, 
"  Who  sees  with  equal  eye,  as  God  of  all, 
A  hero  perish,  or  a  sparrow  fall." 


THE    BROKEN    HEART. 

THOU  brightly  flowing  river!  in  thy  green 
And  wide  savannahs,  many  a  pleasant  scene 
Lies  'neath  the  hills,  nestling,  as  doth  the  babe, 
In  loving  arms,  shut  in  from  the  parade 
And  glare  of  fashion,  and  the  rude  alarms 
Which  flow  from  social  contact  and  its  harms. 

'Twas   thus,  at    least,   when    Peace   and    Plenty 

reigned. 

Or  ere  Suspicion's  foul  and  bloody  train 
Had  entered  these  sweet  Edens  of  delight, 
And  o'er  the  bowers  spread  a  moral  blight; 
Or  ere  Contentment,  sweetest  charm  of  earth, 
Was  driven  from  the  home  where  she  had  birth. 

Some  of  these  homesteads  yet,  as  pictures  fair, 
Daguerrotyped  upon  my  mem'ry  are. 
The  sun  which  gilded  them  hath  darkly  set, 
The  beauty  fled,  but  I  can  ne'er  forget 

Sweet  C ,  the  glowing  landscape  which  once 

spread 
Its  soft  enchantment  round  my  youthful  head. 

The  lordly  mansion,  standing  in  its  prime, 
Bore  witness  to  a  soft  and  happy  clime; 
The  doors  and  windows,  amply  large  and  tall, 
Let  in  a  flood  of  light  upon  the  hall, 
Which,  faced  on  either  side  by  porches  high, 
Took  in  the  breezes  and  cerulean  sky. 

(153) 


LA  YS  FROM  THE  SUNNY  LANDS. 

From  that  grand  porch  which  fronted  on  the  west. 
An  ample  terrace  reached  the  open  space, 
Whence  you  might  gain  a  comprehensive  view 
Of  features  ever  bright  and  ever  new: 
The  winding  river,  the  fair  azure  hills 
Of  Georgia,  the  intervening  acres  tilled, — 

Broad  acres,  varied  with  the  grazing  flocks 
And  cheerful  husbandmen,  who  sorrow  mocked. 
The  south  view  added  to  the  scene  around 
The  more  inspiring  symphonies  of  sound; 
The  soft,  sweet  cooings  of  the  pigeon-cote; 
The  tinkle  of  the  sheep-bell  on  the  slope; — 

The  "click-clack"  where  the  blacksmith's  hammer 

fell; 

The  whirling  of  the  pulley  at  the  well; 
The  playful  children,  with  their  merry  chimes; 
The  soughing  of  the  wind  among  the  pines; 
And  sometimes,  over  all  these  mingling  came, 
Harmoniously,  a  clear,  commanding  strain, — 

Sonorous  as  a  silver  trumpet's  call, 
When  something  bright  and  cheery  doth  befall. 
'Tis  truth  to  say,  that,  to  my  childish  ear. 
That  sound  had  more  of  comfort  and  good  cheer 
Than  any  music  I  have  ever  heard 
While  traveling  since  along  a  pathway  weird. 

That  sound,  so  silvery  and  stirring,  came 
From  good  "  Aunt  Cassie,"  chef  de  la  cuisine, 
Transporting  me  into  the  basement  clean. 
Upon  whose  floor  no  stain  was  ever  seen, 
And  where  the  snowy  table  was  set  out 
With  viands  of  the  most  exquisite  art. 


THE  BROKEN  HEART.  155 

From  the  long  corridor,  some  breezy  morn, 
You  might  look  down  upon  her  stately  form, 
In  striped  homespun  clad  and  'kerchief  clean. 
The  sable  empress  of  a  wide  domain! 
Busied  with  dishes  "  done  just  to  a  charm;" 
Or,  sleeves  rolled  up  above  her  dimpled  arm. 

In  the  cool  morning  or  the  fervid  noon, 
Adjusting  with  much  care  the  bib  and  spoon 
For  some  one  of  the  little  cherubs  fair, 
With  faces  round,  and  long,  black,  silky  hair. 
Who,  ever  pulling  at  her  apron  strings, 
Had    twined    themselves   around    her    heart's    best 
springs. 

Her  selfish  interests  she  had  outlived  far, — 
If  that,  indeed,  there  had  been  any  there; — 
Her  hours  of  relaxation  all  were  given 
To  these,  her  only  children  this  side  heaven; 
And  though  the  offshoots  of  that  thriving  tree 
Beneath  whose  shade  she  dwelt  so  pleasantly, — 

Numbered,  at  length,  nine,  ten.  or  even  more, 

Her  face  was  still  as  lustrous  as  before; 

Still,  on  the  nice  brick  pavement,  morn  and  noon, 

With  patient  joy  wielding  the  bib  and  spoon, 

Her  loving  care  was  just  as  fresh  and  warm 

As  when  one  fairy  nestled  on  her  arm. 

******* 

A  change  fell  rudely  on  that  lovely  scene, — 

Sudden  and  fearful  had  the  onset  been, 

As  some  dark  cloud,  which  rises  in  the  west, 

While  still  serene  and  smiling  is  the  rest 

Of  heaven's  frontispiece,  and,  ere  we  know 

That  danger  threatens,  stuns  us  with  the  blow. 


156          LA  YS  FROM  THE  SUNNY  LANDS. 

So  came  misfortune's  tempest,  laying  low 
The  verdant  hopes,  and  turning  into  woe 
Thoughts  which  had  slept  on  velvet  until  now, 
And  rose-hued  visions  which  from  pleasure  grow. 
The  besom  of  destruction  was  complete, 
Swept  every  comfort  was  from  'neath  their  feet! 

The  cheerful  hands,  the  lowing  herds,  away 
Were  taken,  the  insolvent's  debt  to  pay. 
The  cooings  from  the  pigeon-cote  alone 
Responded  to  that  melancholy  moan, 
When  she,  the  foster-mother,  friend,  and  cook, 
Turned  from  her  new  captivity  to  look, — 

For  the  last  time  upon  that  cherish'd  spot, 
Where,  all  the  slave's  sad  destiny  forgot, 
She  tasted  pleasures  such  as  rarely  fall 
To  those  who  do  themselves  the  honored  call. 
Oh!  who  shall  tell  her  anguish  and  dismay, 
As  from  her  airy  realm  she  turned  away, — 

And  children  of  her  love!  to  try  anew 

The  stranger  paths,  and  stranger  faces,  too? 

They  placed  her,  rudely,  in  another  home, 

Nor  once  bethought  them  how  she  loved  her  own. 

Only  one  little  month  had  sadly  fled; 

One  morn  they  tried  to  wake,  and  found  her  —  dead! 


THE   IGNIS    FATUUS,   OR    GONDEMA 
AND   FABRICIO. 

W.    C.    M. 

'T\vAS  in  the  darkness  of  an  autumn  night; 

The  black  o'erhanging  clouds  had  quite  shut  out 
Fair  Luna  and  the  glimmering  starlight; 

The  deep-toned,  sullen  thunder  rolled  along, 

The  vivid  lightning,  flashing  swift  and  strong,  • 
Illumed  the  deep,  dark  vale  through  which  the  route 
Of  Gondema  must  lead,  as  half  in  doubt 

And  half  in  trust  she  issued  from  the  hut 
Where  "  brethren"  met  at  duty's  call,  to  pray; 

So  much  reliance  in  these  prayers  she  put, 
No  boding  cloud  could  frighten  her  away; 

The  rain,  which  long  in  torrents  rattling  fell, 

On  the  new-fallen  leaves,  like  clumps  of  hail 
Upon  the  housetops,  now  dissolved  in  mist; 

When  Gondema  the  blind  path  wended  slow 

That  to  her  cottage  led.     Years  four  score 
Made  up  her  sum  of  days.      Now  gray  with  age 

Her  hair,  its  native  kink  in  curl  displayed 
'Neath  her  white  cap.     Old  Time  had  waged 

War  with  her  dusky  brow,  but  left  it  this 
Impress  of  humble  peace:  a  look  that's  undismayed. 

Adown  the  slippery  hill  her  careful  steps 

One  of  the  "  faithful"  held.     On  her  return, 

Where  two  ways  met,  her  light  went  out.     She  kept 
Courageously  her  course  toward  the  bourn 

Of  mighty  rest.    The  mist  began  more  heavily  to  drip, 
The  thunder  through  the  hollows  grumbled  loud, 

(157) 


1 53  LA  YS  MOM   THK  .ST.V.VX  LANDS. 

And  as  the  zigzag  lightning  danced  and  skipped 
Across  her  path,  it  gradually  made  known 

The  fearful  truth  which  conjured  up  a  crowd 
Of  superstitious  fancies  —  she  was  lost! 

In  the  dark  windings  of  the  dismal  swamp 
No  way-marks  now  her  feeble  eyes  accost. 

Trembling  with  panic-fear,  and  chilled  with  damp. 
Oft  she  essayed  her  aged  voice  to  raise, 
To  invoke  his  aid  who  through  so  many  days 
Of  lonely  widowhood  had  given  her  light, 
And  "  songs  had  given  her"  in  the  dreary  night; 
*   But  naught  these  pious  turns  of  thought  availed. 
The  fiend  had  rolled  her  senses  like  a  scroll, 

Her  tongue  was  knotted,  and  despair  assailed 
The  heart  that  had  so  many  pulses  told 

Of  truth  unfaltering.     Fixed  she  stood,  as  in  a  reverie 
deep, 

When  lo!  through  the  deep  fearful  copse  a  taper  peeped 
Lurid  and  ghastly,  but  with  stealthy  stride 
Seemed  moving  on.     Low  did  it  glide, 

As  seeking  through  the  mold 

Sure  footing  for  the  traveler's  weary  feet. 

So  thought  poor  Gondema!     That  light  to  greet 

She  started  with  an  anxious  shout,  and  fell 
With  palsied  haste  into  a  marshy  fen. 
Alas!  how  many,  far  more  wise,  have  been 

Duped  by  a  light  which  promised  quite  as  well, 
Yet  proved  at  last  to  be  no  light  from  heaven, 
But  miasmatic  gleams  by  error  driven. 

Recovering  soon,  but  not  her  wonted  pace, 

Old  Gondema  looked  up  her  way  to  trace; 

Her  light  was  gone.     No!  yonder,  flick'ring  through 
The  bending  willows,  it  is  still  in  view! 

With  all  the  speed  that  she  could  now  essay, 
Through  the  stiff,  reedy  bog,  o'er  rushes  high, 
In  itoloniferous  roots  entangled  nigh, 


THE  IGNIS  FATUUS.  r59 

Sinking  in  pools  and  mire,  she  made  her  way 
Led  by  Supernal  power,  for  that  alone 
Supported  her,  and  by  this  spell  drawn  on, 
Though  weak  with  age,  and  nearly  dead  with  fright,. 
She  followed  eagerly  that  phantom  light, 

Till  waning  to  a  speck  it  died  away 
Into  the  murky  midnight.     Farther  on 
Again  it  glowed.     Poor  Gondema,  forlorn 
And  crazed,  plunged  through  the  winding  stream, 
And  grievously  entranced  by  that  gleam 

Sank  down  exhaustedly,  her  tresses  gray 
Loaded  with  vapors,  and  her  garments  torn 

With  thorns  and  briars.      From  the  adjacent  hill 
Her  cry  for  help  was  piteously  borne 

Through  the  conducting  air,  now  moist  and  still, 
To  where  the  "  brethren  "  yet  their  vigils  kept, 

And  reached  Fabricio's  ears,  that  aged  friend 

Whose  gallant  arm,  raised  ever  to  defend 
A  sister's  cause,  had  not  been  palsied  yet! 

"  Hist!"  cried  he,  "  heard  I  not  afar  some  doleful  sound,. 
Like  one  in  agony  of  trouble  found  ? 
It  seems  that  from  the  summit  of  yon  hill 
It  comes, —  some  one  is  farin'  ill!" 
More  faint,  yet  dolefuler  the  sound  appeared. 
"  Did  I  not  tell  you  so?    "Tis  sister  Gondema,  misled 
By  Jack  o'  Lantern."     This  having  said, 

The  brave  old  man  stayed  not  to  marshal  fears, 
But,  turning  his  old  hat  the  inside  out, 

He  seized  his  torch  and  bounded  through  the  night,. 
Like  a  dim  meteor  in  the  heavens.     His  route 

Directly  o'er  the  rugged  hillside  lay; 

And  leaping  over  all  that  checked  his  way, 
Huge  roots  and  rocks,  and,  frightful  to  the  sight, 
Great  fissures  that  laid  open  to  the  light 

The  secrets  of  the  earth,  which  science  owed 


i6o          /../  >'.s  i-Ro.M  '/•///•;  SUNNY  LANDS, 

To  gravitating  waters  in  their  flood, 
He  paused  and  made  survey  with  anxious  eye, 
Hut  nothing,  in  the  darkness,  could  espy. 
He  raised  his  lusty  voice:  "Gondema!  Gondema!" 

The  hills  reverberate  the  cheerful  sound, 
The  trembling  echoes  whispered  back,  "ema," 

Then  all  was  still,  except  a  feeble  voice, 
And  as  the  sable  champion  looked  around, 

He  saw  the  victim  and  her  airy  guide. 
The  spell  was  now  resumed,  that  had  been  lost 

Just  for  a  time.     With  tottering  step  she  tried 
The  charm  to  follow  still.     Upon  her  knees 

She  fell,  with  trace  scarce  visible  of  life; 
Endangered  seemed  the  last  Promethean  spark; 
Again  she  rose,  and  stumbling  through  the  dark. 

Pursued  the  author  of  her  night  of  strife; 
Hut  in  a  moment  more,  the  spell,  with  ease, 

Fabricio  broke.     He  took  the  hat  from  off  his  hoary 
head, 

And,  as  a  bubble  bursts,  the  phantom  fled! 

"  He  is  a  freeman  whom  the  truth  makes  free!" 
Reader,  the  chains  of  superstition  see, 
More  deadly,  sure,  than  those  which  wear  the  flesh. 
The  demon  of  the  swamp,  the  vile  "  fetish," 
The  good  and  evil  days,  the  serpent  charms, 
The  "  rider  of  the  broomstick  "  which  alarms 

The  sleep  of  all  who  take  not  care  to  nail 
A  horse-shoe  at  the  door,  and  on  whose  shrine 

Thousands  must  yearly  bleed  in  lands  which  hail 
The  black  man's  sires!     What  truths  sublime 
Come  down,  transfigured  by  the  touch  of  Time, 
From  ages  past!     Error  has  flown  away 
Before  the  dawning  of  the  promised  day. 
To  those  who  sat  in  heathen  gloom  at  home, 
No  matter  how  delivered,  //;••///  /MS  come! 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


FormL9 — 15m-10,'48(B1039)444 


THE  LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGDLES 




1514    ~ays   from  the 
D29  1     sunny  lands. 


PS 

1514 
D29   1 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A  A      000034549  6 


